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THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
AND OTHER POEMS 



iHacmiUan'0 Pocket American anti iSnjglis!) Classics. 



A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Elementary and 
Secondary Schools, with Cntical Introductions, Notes, etc. 



l6mo. 



Cloth. 



25c. each. 



Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. 

Andersen's Fairy Tales. 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments. 

Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. 

Browning's Shorter Poems. 

Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). 

Burke's Speech on Conciliation. 

Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

Byron's Shorter Poems. 

Carlyle's Essay on Burns. 

Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship. 

Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Won- 
derland (Illustrated). 

Chaucer's Prologoie and Knight's Tale. 

Church's The Story of the Iliad. 

Church's The Story of the Odyssey. 

Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. 

Cooper's The Deerslayer. 

Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. 

Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. 

De Quincey's Confessions of an 
English Opium-Eater. 

Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and The 
Cricket on the Hearth. 

Dryden's Palamon and Arcite. 

Early American Orations, 1760-1824. 

Edwards' (Jonathan) Sermons. 

Eliot's Silas Marner. 

Epoch-making Papers in U. S. His- 
tory. 

Franklin's Autobiography. 

Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. 

Grimm's Fairy Tales. 

Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair. 

Hawthorne's The House of the Seven 
Gables. 

Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Selec- 
tions from). 

Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. 

Homer's Iliad. 

Homer's Odyssey. 

Irving's Life of Goldsmith. 

Irving's The Alhambra. 

Irving's Sketch Book. 

Keary's Heroes of Asgard. 



Kingsley's The Heroes. 
Lamb's Essays. 
Lamb's The Essays of Elia. 
Longfellow's Evangeline. 
Longfellow's Miles Standish. 
Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal. 
Macaulay's Essay on Addison. 
Macaulay's Essay on Hastings. 
Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. 
Macaulay's Essay on Milton. 
Macaulay's Lays, of Ancient Rome. 
Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson. 
Milton's Comus and Other Poems. 
Milton's Paradise Lost, Bks. I and II. 
Old English Ballads. 
Out of the Northland. 
Palgrave's Golden Treasury. 
Plutarch's Lives (Ca;sar, Brutus, and 

Mark Antony). 
Poe's Poems. 

Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from). 
Pope's Homer's Iliad. 
Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies. 
Scott's Ivanhoe. 
Scott's Lady of the Lake. 
Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
Scott's Marmion. 
Scott's Quentin Durward. 
Scott's The Talisman. 
Shakespeare's As You Like It. 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
Shakespeare's Julius Csesar. 
Shakespeare's Macbeth. 
Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. 
Shelley and Keats: Poems. 
Southern Poets: Selections. 
Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I. 
Stevenson's Treasure Island. 
Swift's Gulliver's Travels. 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. 
Tennyson's The Princess. 
Tennyson's Shorter Poems. 
Woolman's Journal. 
Wordsworth's Shorter Poems. 




The Ruins of Goldsmith's Old Homestead at Lissoy. 



^ 



" Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall.*^^ 



GOLDSMITH'S 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

AND OTHER POEMS 

TOGETHEPx, WITH SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 
AND THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

EGBERT N. WHITEFOED, Ph.D. 

THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, PEORIA HIGH 

school; author of "anthology of ENGLISH 

poetry: BEOWULF TO KIPLING" 



To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art . . . 

— The Deserted Village. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1905 

All rights reserved 



luBRARY of CONQRESSJ 
Vwo Copies rfocavou 

AUG 30 lyui) 






COPTBIGHT, 1905, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1905. 



^ 

J 

^ 

^ 



TO 
PROFESSOR FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD 

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY 

WHO HAS TAKEN A KINDLY INTEKEST IN THE WORK 

OF A SECONDARY SCHOOL TEACHER 

OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 



CONTENTS 



Preface .......... vii 

Introduction ix 

The Deserted Village and Traveller 

Dedication of The Deserted Village ... 1 

The Deserted Village ...... 6 

Dedication of The Traveller . . . .23 

The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of Society . 27 

The Hermit „ o , 45 

Songs and Stanzas 

"When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly . „ 55 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . 55 
An Elegy on that Glory of Her Sex, Mrs. Mary 

Blaize 57 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell ..... 59 

Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec ... 59 

The Wretch Condemned with Life to Part . 60 

V 



VI 



CONTENTS 



Memory ! Thou Fontd Deceiver . 
Ah, Me ! When Shall I Marry Me ? 

The Haunch of Venison 

Retaliation ...... 



Dramas 

Preface to The Good-Natured Man 
The Good-Natl:red Man . 
Dedication of She Stoops to Conquer 
She Stoops to Conquer . 



Notes 

Chronological List of Goldsmith's Chief Works 

References 

Index . . 



PAGE 

60 
61 

62 

68 

75 

79 

201 

203 

331 

385 

386 

387 



PREFACE 

This little volume contains the best poems of Gold- 
smith. In addition to The Deserted Village and its 
companion piece, which show his poetic genius, there 
are many minor poems that show the various sides of 
his poetic talent. 

At the suggestion of many teachers, She Stoojys to 
Conquer and The Good-Natured Man have been added 
to show the greatness of Goldsmith as a dramatic 
artist. 

I trust that the student and the general reader will 
feel satisfaction in having in their hands an anthology 
of Goldsmith's writings in both poetry and drama. 

Goldsmith is best revealed to us by the medium of 
that charming personality which' everywhere pervades 
his writings ; and, since his poetry is the best expres- 
sion of his character, necessarily, in the Notes, many 
personal sidelights have been focused on the selected 
poems. I have endeavored to stress the annotation 
with appreciation as well as with information, and 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

hope that students will always keep the beauty of 
Goldsmith's verse, its substance and form, its rhythm 
and metre, in the foreground, and that they will ever 
keep in the background such comments as are at 
variance with any true method of interpreting poetry. 

I have drawn material from the annotations of my 
predecessors, — editors such as Prior, Mitford, Hales, 
E-olfe, Tupper, and Austin Dobson. Whenever I have 
had occasion to use their gleanings, I have given them 
full acknowledgment. 

I wish to thank Professor Arthur B. Milford, of 
Wabash College, Crawfordsville, Indiana, who, as an 
inspiring guide to all that is best in English literature, 
has ever been a help in time of trouble. 

ROBERT N. WHITEFORD. 
Peoria, Illinois, 
May 12, 1905. 



INTRODUCTION 

From the moment when Goldsmith appears before 
us as a dancing urchin with pouting, pock-marked 
face, into which we wish more of his mind had been 
thrown, we are m.oved to say, as we look at his '^peni- 
tential phiz," that here is a youth fated never to knit 
up the '^ raveird sleave of care," who, because of the 
quality of no harm within, will be imposed upon by 
the sharpers of this harsh world. In writing his life 
we tenderly lift up the tangled threads which were 
unfeelingly spun out by fate, appreciating how, all 
through life, a mind never at rest continually encour- 
aged itself by the words, '^ No person ever had a bet- 
ter knack at hoping than I." At Lissoy, his father 
did not put the marrow of saving into his bones, so 
that the boy who knew not how to get a farthing 
always threw away the guinea. Like Steele he early 
became a "machine of pity." Steele became such 
at the age of five, when he pounded for a playmate 
on his father's coffin and heard no response except 

ix 



X INTRODUCTION 

the sobbing of a beautiful mother who frantically 
clasped him to her bosom. Steele says that he was 
so overwhelmed with her tears that pity became the 
weakness of his heart, that good nature became no 
merit, and that an unmanly gentleness of mind was 
generated which in after life insnared him into ten 
thousand calamities and contributed no joy except 
''that sweet anxiety which arises from memory of 
past afflictions." It was this mantle of Steele's in- 
capacity for dealing with life's struggles that fell 
upon Goldsmith. • Small-pox had marred his face 
and disposition, so that few felt the warmth of the 
smouldering fires of genius within that thickset, 
droll3^-shaped body and head; and like Steele he 
early lost a father, and by his pranks eventually 
tired out even his poor mother's patience and love. 
Without his Uncle Contarine and his brother Henr}^, 
his life at the outset would have been completely 
ruined. It seems that moving, traveling, shifting 
from one place to another was his lot during the first 
period of his existence. He went from Paddy Byrne 
to Mr. Campbell and then to Rev. Patrick Hughes. 
Lissoy, Elphin, Athlone, Edgeworthstown, in. quick 
succession polished up him, whom everybody termed 
a blockhead, for Trinity College, Dublin, where he en- 



INTRODUCTION XI 

tered June 11, 1744; and here fate assumed a more 
malignant form. 

At this time Pope had just died, and Swift, who 
years before had been graduated by special favor 
from Trinity, was with ruined reason seeking an exit 
from a world which should no longer lacerate his 
broken heart. 

The ungainly, ugly boy went up as sizar, feeling 
poverty doubly in not getting what his brother 
Henry had received from his father ; but he had grit, 
far more than that possessed by Johnson, who had not 
lasted it out at Oxford. There were studies toward 
which he was inclined ; and Wilder his master, mathe- 
matics, and fagging, he tried to forget by the fast life 
of the town. He now aided in a college riot, and hav- 
ing gained an ^'exhibition" prize of thirty shillings 
he celebrated the same by giving in No. 35 a dancing 
party to both sexes. Wilder broke in, knocked 
down Goldsmith, who, smarting under this disgrace, 
straightway started for Cork with a view of going to 
America and was saved from starvation in his mean- 
derings by some peas in the hand of a peasant girl. 
All this had occurred hard upon his father's death, 
and through his brother Henry's intercession he again 
attended the University only to be under more dur- 



xii INTRODUCTION 

ance vile. Borrowing became necessary; ballads 
were written and sold; and his charity course began 
by his sleeping in a mattress so that a poor woman 
could have his blankets. 

In 1749, the year in which Johnson gave to London 
his Vanity of Human Wishes, Goldsmith received his 
degree and left a place whereto he never warmly ad- 
vised any man to send his son. He was now on the 
point of taking orders, but had to give up a life of 
luxury and ease — in all probability because of the 
fault of boyish dress — and tutored for a time at 
Roscommon, where his Uncle Contarine lived. Tir- 
ing of this, he set out on horseback for Cork and en- 
gaged passage for America, but as the vessel sailed 
without him he was compelled to return to Bally- 
mahon on a broken-down horse, termed b}^ him, Fid- 
dleback. After this he started to London to take up 
the study of law, but on his way at Dublin was 
fleeced of his guineas, and returned once more to mor- 
tified relatives. One more chance of redemption 
was given by his Uncle Contarine, who was willing 
to have him go to Edinburgh to take up the study of 
medicine. So, in the autumn of 1752, in the streets 
of Auld Reekie, absent-minded Goldsmith luckily met 
the porter who was able to direct him to his new 



INTRODUCTION xill 

lodgings. In Edinburgh he dissipated his time and 
again gave way to the romantic turn of his family, 
informing his uncle that Paris and Leyden had far 
better facilities for the study of medicine than Scot- 
land could furnish. After being relieved from debt 
he embarked on a vessel, which, before it reached 
Bordeaux, went down with all on board; but fate 
watched over Goldsmith with paternal care, for it had 
set him aside at New-Castle-upon-Tyne so that Leyden 
could be ultimately reached, and the lore of a year's 
continental wandering might broaden the mind of a 
man destined to be a genius of an all-round type of 
brilliancy. Here, in Holland, teaching and gaming 
made borrowing, and little anatomy, the result, and 
we are not at all surprised to see him, in February, 
1755, fluting his way from Lou vain, where possibly 
he obtained his medical degree, to Antwerp and Paris, 
and disputing from Genoa to Florence, Venice, and 
Padua, until, on February 1, 1756, he landed at 
Dover with his proverbial ever empty purse which 
was carried at once to the streets in which Butler 
and Otway had starved in the previous age. He was 
now twenty-seven years of age and for a time he saw 
a friar's end or a suicide's halter, but resolution and 
principle saved him, together with that watchful 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

Providence. Possibly, at this time, according to his 
prose account of the wanderings of George Primrose 
and his essay on the Adventures of a Strolling Player, 
Goldsmith may have tried acting or helped as a 
merry-andrew in puppet-shows. He must have' 
known the Otway life and somewhat of the beggars 
of Axe-Lane. The street and the garret are ever 
present between the lines of letters written home at 
this period; but he never became so poor as to read 
by the light of a cat's eyes. Fish Street Hill lent to 
him the position of mixing drugs for an apothecary, 
and his old college friend. Dr. Sleigh, helped on 
quackery by setting him up as physician in Bank- 
side, Southwark. What few fees were gained he 
spent on dress, to which in lavishness he was to be 
prone for the remainder of his days. Soon, lack 
of knowledge in the fundamentals of his specialty 
sent him to the author of Pamela as a corrector of 
proof, and in this capacity no doubt literature first 
fascinated him, for at this time he presented for 
criticism to an Edinburgh friend a drama which 
fortunately has not come down to us. Again, Gold- 
smith felt the romantic turn that moved him to 
think of going to decipher the " Written Moun- 
tains/' so that £300 a year might be his; but the 



INTRODUCTIOir XV 

calling of the East turned into a summons to serve 
as usher in Dr. Milner's school at Peckham. Lit- 
erature subtly called him from this disagreeable 
work, of which he afterward wrote in The Bee and 
The Vicar of Wakefield, in Griffiths; who engaged him 
as a hack-writer for The Monthly Review. But as 
time moved on, Paternoster Row and Salisbury 
Square garret proved very unsatisfactory to him who 
wished to be something more than a reviewer or 
critic. He cordially hated a critic. In The Citizen 
of the World he says a critic is not a man of taste more 
than "the Chinese who measures his wisdom by the 
length of his nails." An author, a creator, he desired 
to be, not a poor Grub-street apprentice whose style 
must be directed by a Griffiths. It was now that his 
first book. Memoirs of a Protestant, was published in 
1758. But a translation cannot contain the original- 
ity of genius. Ever moving, dissatisfied Goldsmith 
was now back at Peckham writing to his cousin Con 
of the hazel eyes and harpsichord memory, and to his 
friends in Ireland, that an original production was to 
be forthcoming. Trying to make ends meet, in 1758, 
he enthusiastically tried to secure a surgeon's service 
on the coast of Coromandel in East India, but pre- 
sumably fundamentals again failed on the examina- 



xvi IJ^TRODUCTION 

tion, and for revenge on the world for the low 
estimate placed on his knowledge he worked away in 
secret on that prose writing which shows a promise of 
those graces of what we may call his perfectly happy- 
at-home style. With his hack-money Goldsmith 
had crept up Breakneck Stairs to Green Arbor 
Court, from which he wrote to his brother Henry a 
letter in which is his second bit of poetry, ''An 
Author's Bed-Chamber/' which he saved for The 
Citizen of the World and The Deserted Village. About 
this time Percy visited him as he was correcting 
proof of a piece which, as has been said, bears all 
the marks of genius. In April, 1759, in the year in 
which Burns was born and Collins died in madness 
at Chichester, and Johnson was defraying his 
mother's funeral expenses by writing Rasselas, was 
published an Enquiry into the Present State of Polite 
Learning in Europe. 

Goldsmith had now written his first lines which can 
be called poetry and the first original prose piece, 
which is chiefly valuable because of its showing his 
view of current English poetry and drama. In it he 
attacked blank verse, claiming that the poetry of his 
age was not equal to it, since only " the greatest sub- 
limity of subject can render such a measure pleasing;" 



INTRODUCTION XVll 

that it existed only in tuneless flow, and that the 
poetry of 1759 was a collection of pompous epithets, 
labored diction, and deviations from common sense, 
which tided an author to success for a month and 
then to oblivion forever. Straining at grace and 
catching at finery is his caustic opinion of the inflated, 
trifling style of English poetry; and his view of the 
stage afterward cost him dear with Garrick. He now 
continued with his hack-work which improved 
greatly in quality of entertaining subjects such as 
were contributed to The Bee. One should by all 
means read the paper On Dress for humor, and A 
City Night-Piece for pathos, while he should not 
forget the article on the Fame Machine, wherein he 
sees Samuel Johnson with his Dictionary and The 
Rambler. This tribute no doubt caused Johnson to 
feel that a new star had arisen in the firrnament of 
English authors. If the reader cares to stray farther, 
he should read the article on The Sagacity of Some 
Insects, and that on The Augustan Age in which 
Goldsmith bemoans the low standard of poetic re- 
quirements which seemed only to applaud " dryly 
didactive/' volatile, jingling nonsense or the rasping 
of blank verse. 

Goldsmith again tried poetry, producing such effu- 



XViii INTRODUCTION 

sions as the original quatrains on Wolfe, Logicians 
Refuted, To Iris, and the Elegy on Mrs. Blaize, which, 
with the exception of the last-named piece termed 
by some critics a classic, scarcely deserve mention un- 
less it be to show the many sides of his talent and 
that he is guilty of much poetry that he w^ould have 
his age avoid. The poetic plant flowered late, so late 
that in 1759 we could not even dream of 1764 and 
1770 from these affected imitations. However, the 
readers of The Bee and The Busy Body must have been 
attracted by their raciness, and certainly Percy. His 
prose had now attracted Smollett, who had just 
started the British Magazine, and Newbery, the 
editor of the daily Public Ledger; to the former of 
which publications he contributed the fine Reverie 
at the Boar's Head Tavern and The Distresses of the 
Poor, and to the latter his famous Chinese Letters. 
The year 1760 had now come and with it a removal 
to No. 6, Wine Office Court, where soon, on May 31, 
1761, he was honored by a first visit from Johnson 
who, as he rolled himself along, when asked by his 
friend Percy why he had so dressed himself up, 
replied that he had determined to set Goldy an ex- 
ample, since he no longer wished to be quoted as a 
pattern for slovenliness in garb. We look in vain for 



INTRODUCTION XIX 

the bur which had the faculty of sticking to his coat- 
tails. Would that it had been present, but the 
jealous Scotchman; Boswell, was not to meet Gold- 
smith until early in 1763. 

In May, 1762, was published The Citizen of the 
World, in which are portrayed two great characters, 
the Man in Black and Beau Tibbs. To-day the 
letters of Lien Chi Altangi are as delightful reading 
as when they turned the eyes of literary London 
toward an obscure author between 1760 and 1762. 
Nobody knows Goldsmith or his times who has 
omitted in his reading these Chinese letters in which 
are the low morals of the Londoners, funerals, a visit 
to the Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey, and an 
understanding of English marriages. One goes to 
the theatre, understands benevolence, charity, pathos, 
and humor; he studies quacks, old maids, literature 
clubs, a white mouse with green eyes, current criti- 
cism, and Goldsmith's self revealed in the Man in 
Black, and in Beau Tibbs with whom he dines and 
with whom he goes to Vauxhall. The reader fur- 
ther peruses articles on dogs and poor poets, old age, 
and takes a second visit to Westminster Abbey un- 
derstanding how Irving not only used material from 
Addison, but also largely from Goldsmith; and, 



XX INTRODUCTION 

finally, on closing the one hundred and twenty-three 
letters he knows the condition of poetry in those 
degenerate days. Goldsmith laughingly averred that 
the race of poets was extinct by reason of their 
catching Pegasus by the tail, thus directing his move- 
ments otherwise than by his mouth. Vapid rhymes 
made poetry. English poets possessed little knowl- 
edge of how to regulate their numbers or of mak- 
ing them capable of infinite modulation so as to 
vary with passions that strike and catch the heart. 
He held out the preceding age as a model in order 
that trite sentiments might not be strung up in rhyme. 
He poked fun at elegies, monodies, and pastorals, 
which were watered with an onion, and in forced 
lucubration Goldsmith actually composed an elegy 
to prove how poetic dulness in his time could pare 
itself on both sides and leave nothing in the middle 
but still deeper stupidity ; and his Epigram addressed 
to Colman, Lloyd, and Churchill, shows how he val- 
ued puppet-moving lines pulled into rhyme and metre 
at a fool's will. 

It is no wonder that Johnson in 1763 regarded 
Goldsmith as one of the chief authors of England. 
As Jeffrey wrote to Macaulay, so must Johnson have 
said to Goldsmith, '^ The more I think, the less I can 



INTRODUCTION xxi 

conceive where you picked up that style." From 
now on everything that he touches he adorns. His 
stjde is as pleasurable to the reader as the novel and 
the cigars were to Hawthorne in the back room of 
the hotel in which he was resting after his Blithedale 
experiences. 

Goldsmith had now moved to Islington to begin his 
Vicar of Wakefield and work out for his Citizen of the 
World a poetic confrere; and so what he had written 
in Switzerland for his brother Henry he showed to 
Johnson, with whom he was now in high favor, on 
the Monday evenings spent at the Literary Club, 
which was organized about this time, in 1764. John- 
son saw the merit of the descriptions, moralized it, 
theorized it, and carefully reviewed it after publica- 
tion, and said it did not spring into favor because of 
the partiality of friends, but in spite of such, since his 
friends had always militated against anything good 
coming from Goldy. The creator of Beau Tibbs had 
become a poet of the first rank at thirty-six, at an 
age when Byron and Burns found death. Thus, in 
1764, Goldsmith put forth his heroic couplets by 
which he became the one skylark whose warble was 
distinctively lyrical between Gray's two Pindaric 
Odes of 1757 and Cowper's Table-Talk of 1782. 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

Thomson, Blair, Dyer, Allan Ramsay, Collins, and 
Shenstone were dead, and Churchill had just been 
buried; Young was rapidly nearing the end, and no 
notable poet was living but Gray. The condition of 
English poetry was as it had been in 1761 when 
Churchill's Rosciad had momentarily checked the 
romanticism which had been set in motion by Dyer's 
Grongar Hill, by Thomson's Seasons, by Young's 
Night-Thoughts, by Akenside's Odes, by CoUins's 
Odes, and Gray's Elegy. Goldsmith had had little 
use for the ^'tawdry lampoons" of Churchill; for to 
him satire did not make verse, nor was it pleasing 
to see abuse and party shaping poetic inspirations 
so as to spoil Popian couplets. He never quite 
departed from the rigid models of classicism, even 
though we aver that he goes astray in The Haunch 
of Venison, the Bunhury Rhyming Epistle, and Retali- 
ation, in which the metres show the influence of ro- 
manticism; but these pieces are ever to be set aside 
from The Traveller and The Deserted Village, in 
which the serious qualities are never belittled by 
the presence of running anapests. After a survey 
of the verse of his contemporaries, Goldsmith had 
come to the conclusion that changing passions, and 
numbers changing with those passions, revealed the 



INTRODUCTION xxiii 

whole secret by which the monotonous flow, the 
bloated epithet, and ^' the dressing up trifles with 
dignity/' could be removed from heroic couplets. He 
says, ''Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write 
naturally; not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver 
mean ideas," and, above all, he desired his fellow-poets 
to avoid the blank verse of innovators, who ''not 
only use blank verse in tragedy and the epic, but 
even in lyric poetry." But while he admired the old 
school, he was not blind to the merits of the new. 
As far back as 1757 he had sneered at the Pin- 
daric attempts of Gray, suggesting that the poet 
of the Elegy should cultivate flowers indigenous, 
not exotic, to Enghsh soil, but he at the same time 
had seen in these alien pieces the excellence of Dry- 
den's odes. He had memorized some of Gray's 
Elegy ; he had recently set his approval on the fine 
sentiment in the blank verse of Thomson's didac- 
tive failure. Liberty, which seems to have inspired 
the apostrophe to freedom in The Traveller ; and in 
ThrenoSiia Augustalis, which he was yet to write, he 
purloined from Collins at sweet discretion. The 
reader can feel that Goldsmith's views of poetry had 
changed or were changing as he runs across this pas- 
sage in Essay XVIII: "There is an ode extant with- 



XXIV INTRODUCTION 

out rhyme addressed to Evening, by the late Mr. 
ColHns, much more beautiful ; and Mr. Warton, 
with some others, has succeeded in divers occasional 
pieces, that are free of this restraint : but the num- 
ber in all of these depends upon the syllables, and 
not upon the feet, which are unlimited." Thus we 
can understand how Goldsmith in his Traveller mar- 
ried the body of classicism to the soul of romanti- 
cism; and how, as he said of Otway, he painted 
classicism in this poem directly from nature, catch- 
ing emotion just as it rises from the soul in all the 
powers of the moving and pathetic. A few of his 
great phrases selected here and there from the poem 
show the variety of his peculiar emotional power, 
which makes him unique among his contemporaries, 
and which still sets him apart from all other English 
poets. 

" My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee . . ." 

" My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own.'i 

" Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small . . ." 

" The naked negro, panting at the line. 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine ..." 



INTRODUCTION XXV 

" Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast." 

"And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast ..." 

" And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore." 

"... at pleasure's lordly call 
The smiling, long-frequented village fall." 

These lines are enough to make even a Goldsmith 
worshiper re-read this poem, however he may have 
it at his tongue's end. 

At this time Goldsmith came back from Isling- 
ton to his lodging in the Temple and published his 
Essays, 1765. The pieces especially to be commended 
are the Adventures of a Strolling Player, Sentimental 
Comedy, and those on the technique of poetry, ancient 
and modern. It was in the year of his Essays that 
he buttoned on his scarlet greatcoat under his chin, 
wore his fancy wig, and carried his cane to clients, 
who were in constant danger of being killed by his 
prescriptions; but, as dress and debt went hand in 
hand, he soon gave up ruining his dupes and friends 
by this renewal of quackery. 



xxvi INTRODUCTION 

He now published on March 27, 1766, The Vicar 
of Wakefield, which will always remain his tour de 
force prose piece. By it he not only measured arms 
with the dead Richardson and Fielding, but also with 
the living Sterne and Smollett. In it he created a 
character which is a composite of Chaucer's priest, 
Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley, Fielding's Parson 
Adams, and Sterne's Uncle Toby. Dr. Primrose is 
an allegorical personage like Job. The novel is a 
tale of adversity ending in prosperity, the hero of 
which is like Antonio in The Merchant of Venice, or 
like Hamlet, being portrayed to set off the good 
individual in life for whom the snares are set. The 
Vicar is a passive actor on the arena of a destiny that 
shifts its own scenery, and he is to be admired only 
in the way in which he takes woe and weal with equal 
grace and thanks. Goldsmith helped in the evolu- 
tion of English fiction by writing an idyllic romance 
which gives us two characteristics, optimism and na- 
ture, making for righteousness in a life which, even 
at its worst, was beautiful and worth the living. The 
plot as Macaulay says is an impossible one, but we 
only care to note that it well sustains the study of a 
fascinating personality, that it is ''an imperishable tale 
of the misfortunes of that compound of wisdom and 



INTRODUCTION xxvii 

simplicity; of vanity and unselfishness , of shrewdness 
and benevolence — the Vicar of Wakefield/' and that 
in this respect it is not autobiographical, but uni- 
versal. It is not necessary to speak of the subordinate 
characters who meted out the seeming evils. They 
whose names are familiar in every cultured house- 
hold are but foils to set off the virtues of him who 
by "an habitual acquaintance with misery" went 
through "the truest school of fortitude and philoso- 
phy." And even the ethical phrases bend in proper 
support to this clear conception of the character of 
the Vicar. 

"... the nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed 
from the trimmings of the vain." 

"That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce 
worth the sentinel." 

"... never strike an unnecessary blow at a victim, over 
whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment." 

" Conscience is a coward ; and those faults it has not strength 
enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse." 

"... that single effort by which we stop short in the down- 
hill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue than 
a hundred acts of justice." 

" Good counsel rejected, returns to enrich the giver's bosom." 



xxviii INTRODUCTION 

Johnson had been the first to see the merits of this 
novel, and by seUing it for sixty guineas tided Gold- 
smith over an unfortunate rental quarrel. It seems, 
though the exact circumstances of Goldsmith's ar- 
rangements with Collins, the publisher, will never be 
known, that the various editions of the novel in his 
lifetime brought nothing but loss to all concerned. 
In passing we must not forget that his ballad, The 
Hermit, of 1765, w^as inserted in the novel, as well as 
When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly, and the Elegy 
on the Death of a Mad Dog, which he had written dur- 
ing some of his leisure moments. 

During 1767 Goldsmith was at Islington, probably 
at Canonbury House, and when in the city, at Gar- 
den Court. He had now finished his The Good- 
Matured Man, which was staged by Colman at Covent 
Garden on January 29, 1768. By the proceeds of 
this comedy he extravagantly fitted up his rooms 
at No. 2, Brick Court, Middle Temple, for had he 
not, according to Boswell, in Garden Court said to 
Johnson, " I shall soon be in better chambers " ? We 
only wish he had paid more attention to Johnson's 
reply, "Nil te quaesiveris extra," for this new outlay 
was the beginning of permanent unhappiness. A 
mind that ever works under the incubus of pecuni- 



INTRODUCTION xxix 

ary distress will derange itself; and we can readily 
see how, by the card parties and dinners given at 
this time, he increased that nervousness of a mind 
constituted never to be at rest. His vanity had 
ever required a heyday fling of folly, no matter what 
it cost in the long run. One day, possibly during his 
hours of revelry, there entered his apartments the 
news of his brother's death. His brother had died 
at Athlone. Should old acquaintance and Lissoy be 
forgot and never brought to mind ? Had he not in the 
Dedication of The Traveller expressed the wish that 
the quiet obscurity of Henry's happy life had been 
his? And, from May, 1768, on, he began that ten- 
derest and best poem which is redolent of his boy- 
hood joys and sorrows and precious memories of kith 
and kin. Oppressed by his improvident condition 
and depressed by his lonely life, since all of his rela- 
tives were either dead or scattered, he turned for 
solace to the making of this new poem in ''Shoe- 
maker's Paradise," the little cottage at Edgeware, 
where he also worked on his Roman History. In 
1769 he was conspicuous at Boswell's famous din- 
ner, and it was during this year that he was elected 
Professor of Ancient History to the Royal Academy, 
and began a natural history, which made good 



XXX INTRODUCTION 

Johnson's prediction that it would be as agreeable 
as a Persian tale, when it subsequently appeared as 
Animated Nature. 

May 26, 1770, is the great date in Goldsmith's life, 
for it gave to the world The Deserted Village, a poem* 
the beauty of which is unanalyzable. It is a pasto- 
ral lyric that possesses in its finest lines no artifice 
but the genuine emotion which beats into rhythm the 
ecstasy of beholding the joys of peasantry, the pathos 
of seeing these joys pass into sorrows, and the indig- 
nation which is hot against a government that has 
made laws to grind the poor and elevate the rich. 
Goldsmith's lines are at times as virulent and bitter 
in protest against the social evils of his day as those 
of Milton and Shelley when they called down fire 
from heaven on blind mouths, sons of Belial, herded 
wolves, obscene ravens, and vultures '^Who feed 
where desolation first has fed." He hangs crape on 
his imagery not only to set off hatred against injus- 
tice and greed of the luxurious rich, but also to set off 
in sparkling colors crystal tears dropped for true love's 
sake. There is only one poet with whom we can 
compare him in power of inimitable tender pathos, 
and that is Cow^per who, as memory brings up a 
little child of six and a funeral procession filing away 



INTRODUCTION xxxi 

from nursery windows, sobs anew for his mother who 
in this manner in the days of yore had departed never 
to return. All the agony of sixty years is in this 
couplet : — 

"By expectation every day beguiled, 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child." 

If we can sum up Cowper's life in this felicitous 
phrase, so likewise can we Goldsmith's when we turn 
to that part of The Deserted Village where the agony 
of eighteen years is expressed in hoping that at some 
time he might return to die amid the scenes of his 
childhood. We feel that he is choking down the 
tears in that plaintive refrain, " I still had hopes," 
which makes the. passage not only the very quintes- 
sence of lyricism, but also the finest he ever wrote. 

" In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes, for.pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 



xxxii INTRODUCTION 

And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last." 

The description of the village; the portraits of his 
brother, father, and Paddy Byrne; the inn; the com- 
parison of England to a female, whose charms are fled, 
shining forth in all the impotence of dress; his sym- 
pathetic penciling of innocence, " Sweet as the prim- 
rose peeps beneath the thorn,'' becoming a '^poor 
houseless shivering" wretch, where ''Tmiiultuous 
grandeur crowds the blazing square," and his lofty 
idea of the function of poetry, sweet poetry, that 
loveliest maid — make us ask where is there another 
poem comparable to it in exquisitely chiseled im- 
agery, in white-heat struck out phrases, in elegance 
of diction, and softness of numbers. We reluctantly 
leave a poem which is so arrayed in nature's 
simplest charms as to stir the fountains of those 
early, deep remembrances that turn all our past to 
pain. The emotional technique of the whole poem 
is explained by this couplet : — 

"To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art." 



INTR D UCTION XXXiil 

Goldsmith after publishing his Deserted Village vis- 
ited Paris with Mrs. Horneck and her two daughters, 
— Catherine, "Little Comedy/' and Mary, "the Jes- 
samy Bride." During his absence Chatterton, "the 
marvellous boy, the sleepless soul, perished in his 
beauty and his pride " in his Holborn chamber. On 
coming back, after a visit with Lord Clare in 1771 he 
wrote his airy Haunch of Venison, which is full of such 
raillery and sallies of innuendo as : — 

" But what vex'd me most was that Scottish rogue, 

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue ; 

And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, 

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd, 

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 

'The tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 

' I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week ; 

I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.' " 

From this minor poem Goldsmith turned to his 
History of England, and in the farm-house at Edge- 
ware Road, where he was to have summer outings 
until his death, he continued writing his compilations. 
In February, 1772, his dirge, Threnodia Augustalis, 
was written, of which hasty composition it is not 



xxxiv INTRODUCTION 

necessary to speak. Students of Goldsmith's poetry, 
however, should not omit the prose verse letter 
written at this time to ''Little Comedy/' who had 
become the wife of Bunbury, the caricaturist. Like 
The Haunch of Venison, its anapestic rhymes are full 
of delightful repartee and bantering. Prior first 
brought it to light in 1837. The sixth mile stone on 
Edge ware Road also helped to bring out on March 15, 
1773, She Stoops to Conquer, which ranks Goldsmith 
with Sheridan. At this time he was still drawing 
animals on the walls for Animated Nature, and he 
was working on his History of Greece. These com- 
pilations can be pardoned the padding of inaccura- 
cies because of the witchery of their style. 

Goldsmith was now hopelessly in debt, writing in 
order to get advance money and with no expectation 
of ever settling old scores. Was a poet ever trusted 
before to the extent of two thousand pounds? As 
De Quincey says, there comes a time in every man's 
life when his past rushes in upon his present and seeks 
to annihilate it. Dress, gaming, charity, his Purdons 
and his Pilkingtons had done him to the death, and 
he was now grappling with the phantoms of these, 
his own mistakes, which had made the path of fate 
so tortuous. Brooding had increased his nervous 



INTRODUCTION xxxv 

malady to a mild form of insanity, which was far pref- 
erable to what lay near in the shadowy shape of Fleet 
Street Prison. His friends could not aid him. Their 
invitations to dinners and coffee-houses only helped 
him to forget. They even went so far as to write epi- 
taphs on one who for years had been burying himself 
alive by being, as Johnson said, no man's friend, since 
he had never been a friend to himself. If Johnson was 
of this opinion, what must his other companions have 
thought of his down-hill career at this time ? I have 
often thought the reason why Johnson did not write 
an epitaph on Goldsmith in St. James's coffee-house 
was because he felt that soon he would be compelled 
to write one in grim earnest, and he had not long to 
wait. On April 4, 1774, two weeks before his unfinished 
Retaliation, with its fine anapestic epitaphs on Burke, 
Garrick, and Reynolds, was published, the ghosts of 
his mistakes — and mistakes are as tragic oft as sins 
— called him to a world where he did not have to 
meet his creditors. If on that blue Monday in Lon- 
don the members of the Literary Club could have 
communed with Goldsmith's spirit, it would have 
hushed their anxious inquiries by replying, ''Thank 
God, my mind is at rest. Do not grieve, since for 
the first time in my ill-fated life I have found ease." 



xxxvi INTRODUCTION 

The attitude of men toward Goldsmith had ever 
been after an acquaintanceship of a few minutes, first 
to respect and then to ride him out of the room. And, 
if he caused men to laugh and jeer at him because of 
idiosyncrasies, women, too, even those who laughingly 
defended him, were so affected by 'his abominable 
absurdities that they could not conceal their opinions, 
consequently giving him little credit for any real 
worth as a man. They considered him a light weight, 
never dreaming that he craved either their sympathy 
or love. Men of genius have been unfortunate in be- 
ing embarrassed by an over-amount of advances or 
overtures on the part of women who thought they 
could be ministering angels to peculiarities. But 
Goldsmith was the abstract of all faults that are found 
in all geniuses, and it is said woman can never love 
a man who is ridiculed by everybody of both sexes. 
If only 'Hhe Jessamy Bride" had taken him and 
disentangled the net of finances enmeshing him, the 
world might have had another Deserted Village. If 
his two great poems came up out of darkness, what 
might he not have produced under favorable environ- 
ment with a noble woman at his side to help. But 
he had to accept his fate — to reign a lonely king and 
die without the love of woman or that of children. 



INTRODUCTION XXXVli 

I think his poor, ugly body must have stirred in its 
coffin as it felt that lock of hair going into the keeping 
of her whom he could have loved, if only half a chance 
had been given. Swift while dying at the top could 
comfort himself by the thought that he had been 
found lovable by Stella and Vanessa ; and if anything 
more pathetic can be written than ''Only a woman's 
hair," it can be "Only a man's hair." Longfellow 
tells us that no man is so utterly wretched or cursed 
by fate but somewhere a heart responds unto his 
own. However, it is not always the feminine 
heart. The pathos of ''Only a man's hair" is in 
understanding that such words were never written 
by Mary Horneck, but they might have been, and in 
the thought underlying the lock of hair which inti- 
mates that in life Goldsmith was too ugly and too 
peculiar, even though he wrote like an angel, ever to 
elicit any love from his " Jessamy Bride," who may 
have tried her best to give him her heart, but in vain. 
Goldsmith's debts kept him from having a public 
funeral and from Westminster Abbey; and they pur- 
sued him even into the Temple burying-ground, mak- 
ing his obsequies as dismal as those of Poe. No man 
knows the exact spot of his interment, but we all know 
where to go to read " Nullum fere scribendi genus non 



xxxviii INTEOBUCTIOJSr 

tetigit; nullum quod tetigit non ornavit/' and after 
reading the epitaph we think of what Johnson once 
said, " He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey, and 
every year he lived would have deserved it better." 

Thus the pen dropped from the wizard hand of the 
kind and gentle "slave of letters, and the master of 
letters," whose humor and pathos had adorned Eng- 
lish literature in almost all of its phases, — in criti- 
cism, in biography, in history, in fiction, in drama, 
and in poetry. Consider what an irreparable loss it 
would be to English letters if we had to surrender 
The Citizen of the World, The Vicar of Wakefield, She 
Stoops to Conquer, The Deserted Village, The Traveller, 
Retaliation, and When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly. 

In conclusion, we can safely place Goldsmith as a 
poet beside Gray, saying of him as Matthew Arnold 
said of the recluse of Cambridge, " He is the scantiest 
and frailest of classics in our poetry, but he is a 
classic.'' 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
AND OTHER POEMS 



DEDICATION 
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 

Dear Sir, 

I CAN have no expectations in an address of this 
kind, either to add to your reputation, or to estabhsh 
my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, 
as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to 
excel; and I may lose much by the severity of your 
judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than 
you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I never 
paid much attention, I must be indulged at present 
in following my affections. The only dedication I 
ever made was to my brother, because I loved him 
better than most other men. He is since dead. Per- 
mit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 

How far you may be pleased with the versification 
and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not 
pretend to enquire; but I know you will object (and 
indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur 
in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is 



2 DEDICATION 

no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are 
only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To 
this I can scarcely make any other answer than that 
I sincerely believe what 1 have written; that I have 
taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, 
for these four or five years past, to be certain of what 
I allege; and that all my views and enquiries have 
led me to believe those miseries real, which I here at- 
tempt to display. But this is not the place to enter 
into an enquiry, whether the country be depopulat- 
ing, or not; the discussion would take up much room, 
and I should prove m3^self, at best, an indifferent poli- 
tician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I 
want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, 1 
inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here 
also I expect the shout of modern politicians against 
me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the 
fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest 
national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity 
in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I 
must remain a professed ancient on that head, and 
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states, 
by which so many vices are introduced, and so many 
kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has 



DEDICATION 3 

been poured out of late on the other side of the ques- 
tion^ that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, 
one would sometimes wish to be in the right. 

I am, Dear Sir, 
Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE DESERTED TILLAGE 

Sweet Auburn° ! loveliest village of the plain ; 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paus'd on every charm, 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 10 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church° that topt the neighbouring hill, 
The hawthorn bush,° with seats beneath the shade, 
-For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I blest the coming day, 15 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
And all the village train, ° from labour free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 

5 



6 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey 'd; 20 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
The dancing pair° that simply sought renown 25 

By holding out to tire each other down; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 29 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like 
^ these, 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed : 
These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled. 
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 4a 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 7 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 

Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, 45 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass overtops the mouldering wall ; 

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,° 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade° ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry ,° their country's pride, 55 

When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs° began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more : 60 
His best companions, innocence and health; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 65 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opulence allied. 



8 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

And every pang that folly pays to pride. ° 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 70 

Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scen^, 
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more.° 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 75 

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view° 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings° round this world of care, 
In all my griefs° — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes,° my latest hours to crown, 85 

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 90 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I sav/; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 9 

And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,° 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 

Here to return — and die at home at last.° 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100 

Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly° ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
No surly porter° stands in guilty state, 105 

To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay. 
While resignation^ gently slopes the way; no 

And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 115 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 



10 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 

The playful children just let loose from school, 120 

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind^ 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 

And fill'd each pause the nightingale° had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail, 125 

No cheerful murmurs fiuctuate° in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widow'd, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 130 

She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 

She only left of all the harmless train, 135 

The sad historian° of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd. 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's^ modest mansion rose. 140 

A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year°; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 11 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; 
Unpractised he to fawn,° or seek for power, 145 

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More skiird to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain : 150 
The long remember'd beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier,° kindly bade to stay, 155 

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave° ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 



12 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 

He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 

Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.° 170 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood ; at his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175 
And his last faltering accents whisper 'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 180 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
Even children followed with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 185 

Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
As some tall cliff ° that lifts its awful form, 189 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 13 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilFd to rule, 195 

The village master° taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew: 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 200 

Full well they laugh' d with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 205 

The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 
The village all declared how much he knew : 
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And even the story ran that he could gauge : 210 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around; 
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 215 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame; the very spot 



14 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that Hfts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220 
Lowhes that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where grey-beard mirth and smihng toil retir'd, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 

The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall,° the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230 

The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules,° the royal game of goose°; 
The hearth, except when winter chill 'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 235 

Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240 " 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 15 

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 

No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail ; 

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245 

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 

The host himself no longer shall be found 

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. 

Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. ■ 250 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 255 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd — 260 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; 
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 265 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 



16 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Between a splendid and an happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,° 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; 270 

Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around ; 
Yet count our gains ; this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their 
growth ; 280 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies; 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, all 285 

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 






THE DESERTED VILLAGE 17 

When time advances^ and when lovers fail, 

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 

In all the glaring impotence of dress,° 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray 'd : 295 

In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 

But verging to decline, its splendours rise; 

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise : 

While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land. 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 300 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 

The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits° stray'd 305 

He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share; 310 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 



18 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign 

Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train : 320 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,° 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 324 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female° lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn° : 330 

Now lost to all, — her friends, her virtue fled, — 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine the loveliest 

train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 



■ 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 19 

At proud men's doors they ask a little bread.° 340 

Ah, no ! To distant climes,° a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama° murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there° from all that charm'd before 345 
The various terrors of that horrid shore; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 350 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;. 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers° wait their hapless prey, 355 
And savage men more murderous still than they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven! What sorrows gloom'd that part- 
ing day, 



20 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

That caird them from their native walks away; 

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365 

Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 

For seats like these beyond the western main. 

And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 

Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 370 

The good old sire the first prepar'd to go 

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 

He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 

And left a lover's for a father's arms. 

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 

And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380 

And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 

And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 

In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385 

How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 21 

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,° 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. " 390 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 395 

And half the business of destruction done° ; 
Even now, me thinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 

Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there; 
And piety w^ith wishes plac'd above, 405 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sw^eet poetry ,° thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; 
Unfit in these degenerate times° of shame 
To catch the heart,° or strike for honest fame; 410 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds,° my solitary pride; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 



22 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

That found'st me poor at first,° and keep'st me so; 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 

Farewell, and O ! where'er thy voice be tried, 

On Torno's° cliffs, or Pambamarca's° side, 

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 

Teach° erring man to spurn the rage of gain; 

Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 425 

Tho' very poor, may still be very blest ; 

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 

As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 

While self-dependent power can time defy, 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430 



DEDICATION 

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH 

Dear Sir, 

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can 
acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedi- 
cation; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to 
prefix your name to my attempts, which you decUne 
giving with your own. But as a part of this poem 
was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to 
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of 
it, when the reader understands that it is addressed 
to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired 
early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of 
forty pounds a year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of 
your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred 
office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers 
are but few ; while you have left the field of ambition, 
where the labourers are many, and the harvest not 
worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, 

23 



24 DEDICATION 

what from the refinement of the times, from different 
systems of criticisms, and from the divisions of party, 
that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among un-^ 
polished nations; but in a country verging to the 
extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in 
for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less 
laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and 
at length supplant her; they engross all that favour 
once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, 
seize upon the elder's birthright. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the pow- 
erful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken 
efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms 
have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, 
and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests and iambics, 
alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every ab- 
surdity has now a champion to defend.it; and as he 
is generally much in the wrong, so he has always 
much to say ; for error is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dan- 
gerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the 
judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind 
is once infected with this disease, it can only find 
pleasure in what contributes to increase the dis- 



DEDICATION 25 

temper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pur- 
suing man after having once preyed upon human 
flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite 
with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable 
feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers gen- 
erally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to 
be thought a bold man, having lost the character of 
a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet ; 
his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence 
is said to be force, and his phrenzy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has neither 
abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot 
tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. 
Without espousing the cause of any party, I have 
attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have en- 
deavoured to show, that there may be equal happi- 
ness in states that are differently governed from our 
own; that every state has a particular principle of 
happiness, and that this principle in each may be car- 
ried to a mischievous excess. There are few can 
judge, better than yourself, how far these positions 
are illustrated in this poem. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most affectionate Brother, 
Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE TEAVELLER; 

OR, 

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,° 

Or by the lazy .Scheldt,° or wandering Po; 

Or onward, where the rude Carinthian° boor 

Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 

Or where Campania's plain° forsaken lies, 5 

A weary waste expanding to the skies : 

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 

My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee; 

Still to my brother turns,° with ceaseless pain. 

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.° 10 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend : 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire; 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 15 

And every stranger finds a ready chair; 

27 



28 THE TRAVELLER 

Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 

Where all the ruddy family around 

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; 20 

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,° 

And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and care,° 
Impeird, with steps unceasing, to pursue 25 

Some fleeting good,° that mocks me with the view; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, ° 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 30 

Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career. 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 35 

The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 39 

That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
Let school-taught° pride dissemble all it can, 



THE TRAVELLER 29 

These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 
crown'd; 45 

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale; 
For me your tributary stores combine; 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 50 

As some lone miser visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 55 

Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies : 
Yet oft a sigh pre vails, ° and sorrows fall. 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 60 

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 65 



30 THE TRAVELLER 

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; 

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 

And his long nights of revelry and ease : 

The naked negro, panting at the line, 

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 70 

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 

And thanks his gods° for all the good they gave. 

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 

His first, best country ever is at home. 

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 75 

And estimate the blessings which they share, 

Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 

An equal portion dealt to all mankind; 

As different good, by art or nature given. 

To different nations makes their blessings even. 80 

Nature, a mother kind° alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side°; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 85 

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
From art° more various are the blessings sent ; 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 90 



THE TRAVELLER 31 

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,° 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favourite happiness attends, 95 

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 
Till carried to excess in each domain. 
This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 100 
Here for a while my proper cares resigned, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub° at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right where Apennine ascends,° 105 

Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. no 

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 115 



32 THE TRAVELLER 

Whose bright succession decks the varied year; 

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 

With vernal lives that blossom but to die : . 

These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 

Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 120 

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 125 

Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign. 
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And even in penance planning sins anew. 130 

All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish 'd through the state; 
At her command the palace learnt to rise, 135 

Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; 
The canvas glow'd beyond even nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; 140 



I 



THE TRAVELLER 33 

While nought remained of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric° ill. 

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 145 

By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade°; 150 

Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd. 
The sports of children satisfy the child° ; 
Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 155 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those domes, where Caesars^ once bore sway, 
Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, 160 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 165 



34 THE TRAVELLER 

Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 

Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, 

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. 

No product here the barren hills° afford, 

But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 170 

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 

But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 

No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,° 

But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 174 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though 

small. 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 180 

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal. 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 185 

Breasts° the keen air, and carols as he goes; 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep. 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 



THE TRAVELLER 36 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 190 

At night returning; every labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire,° and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; 
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 195 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; 200 

And even those ills, that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 205 

Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 210 

Yet let them only share the praises due. 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 



36 THE TEA VELLER 

Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 215 
That first excites desire, and then supplies; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 220 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year. 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 225 

Till buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run; 230 

And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the m.ountain's breast 
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 235 

Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, 
These far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 



THE TRAVELLER 37 

I turn; and France displays her bright domain. 240 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire° ? 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 245 

And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew; 
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still. 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 250 

Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze. 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic° lore. 
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 255 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honour forms the social temper here : 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or even imaginary worth obtains, 260 

Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land; 
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise. 



38 THE TRAVELLER 

They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, 265 
Till seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies. 
It gives their follies also room to rise; 
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 270 

And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 275 

And trims her robes of frieze° with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 280 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 285 

Lift the tall rampire's° artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 



TEE TRAVELLER 39 

Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 290 

While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile, 

Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; 

The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 

The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 

The crowded mart, the cultivated plain^ — 295 

A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil. 
Industrious habits° in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 300 

Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, 305 
Even liberty itself is bartered here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys; . 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, 310 

And calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic° sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; 



40 THE TRAVELLER 

War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 315 
How much unhke the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian° pride, 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes° gUde. 320 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom° reason holds her state, 325 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye; 
I see the lords of human kind pass by, 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, 330 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagin'd right, above control, 
While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here. 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 336 
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy. 
But foster'd even by freedom ills annoy : 
That independence Britons prize too high, 



THE TRAVELLER 41 

Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 340 

The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 

All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 

Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 

Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd; 

Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 345 

Represt ambition struggles round her shore, 

Till over-wrought, the general system feels 

Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 350 

Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 355 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms. 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 360 

Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great° ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire; 



42 THE TRAVELLER 

And thou, fair freedom, taught ahke to feel 365 

The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; 

Thou transitory flower, alike undone 

By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, 

Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure 

I only would repress them to seciu'e : 370 

For just experience tells, in every soil. 

That those who think must govern those that toil ; 

And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 

Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 

Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 375 

Its double weight must ruin all below. 

O then how blind to all that earth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
Except when fast-approaching danger warms : 380 
But when contending chiefs° blockade the throne. 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own. 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 385 

Laws grind the poor,° and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 



THE TRAVELLER 43 

Tear off reserve, and bear my swelling heart ; 390 

Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power; 
And thus polluting honour in its source, 395 

Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 400 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
Lead stern depopulation in her train. 
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
In barren solitary ponip repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 405 

The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main; 410 

Where wild Oswego° spreads her swamps around. 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 

Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, 



44 THE TRAVELLER 

Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 415 

And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,° 420 

Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 425 

To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 
How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 430 
Still to ourselves in every place consigned. 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 435 

Luke's iron crown,° and Damiens' bed of steel,° 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



THE HERMIT" 

" Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 

And guide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

'^ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 5 

With fainting steps and slow, 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread. 

Seem lengthening as I go." 

'^ Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 

''To tempt the dangerous gloom; 10 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

''Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 15 

I give it with good will. 
45 



46 THE HERMIT 

'' Then turn to-night, and freely share 

Whate'er my cell bestows, 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 20 

'' No flocks that range the valley free, 

To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught b}^ that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

^' But from the mountain's grassy side, 25 

A guiltless feast I bring, 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. 

And water from the spring. 

"Then, pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong : 30 

Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.'' 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends. 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 35 

And follows to the cell. 



THE HERMIT 47 

Far in the wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 

And strangers led astray* 40 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care; 
The wicket, opening with a latch. 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 45 

To take their evening rest, 
The Hermit trimmed his little fire, 

And cheered his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store. 

And gaily pressed and smiled; 30 

And skilled in legendary lore. 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries. 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 55 

The crackling faggot flies. 



48 THE HERMIT 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 60 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 

With answering care opprest : 
"And whence, unhappy youth/' he cried, 

"The sorrows of thy breast? 

"From better habitations spurned, 65 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturned. 

Or unregarded love ? 

"Alas ! the joys that fortune brings. 

Are trifling, and decay; 70 

And those who prize the paltry things 
More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep, 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 75 

But leaves the wretch to weep ? 



THE HERMIT 49 

''And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. so 

'' For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said: 
But, while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betrayed. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 85 

Swift mantling to the view; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 9° 

The lovely stranger stands confest, 

A maid in all her charms. 

" And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn," she cried; 
''Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 95 

Where heaven and you reside. 



50 THE HERMIT 

" But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 

Companion of her way. loo 

"My father lived beside the Tyne; 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, — 

He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 105 

Unnumbered suitors came. 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt or feigned a flame. 

'' Each hour a mercenary crowd 

With richest proffers strove; no 

Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed, 

But never talked of love. 

" In humble, simplest habits clad, 

No wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 115 

But these were all to me. 



THE HERMIT 51 

''And when beside me in the dale, 

He carolled lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 

And music to the grove. 120 

"The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of heaven refined. 
Could nought of purity display, 

To emulate his mind. 

"The dew, the blossom on the tree, 125 

With charms inconstant shine; 
Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 

Their constancy was mine. 

" For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain; 130 

And while his passion touched my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain. 

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride, 
And sought a solitude forlorn^ 135 

In secret, where he died. 



52 THE HERMIT 

''But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

And well my life shall pay; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 140 

" And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I." 

''Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, 145 

And clasped her to his breast : 
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, — 

'Twas Edwin's self that pressed ! 

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear; 

My charmer, turn to see 150 

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 155 

My life — my all that's mine ? 



THE HERMIT 53 

'^No, never from this hour to part 

We'll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." i6o 



^-^ 



a- 



\ 



SONGS AND STANZAS 



WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY° 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 5 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song; 
And if you find it wondrous short, — • 

It cannot hold you long. 
55 



56 SOI^GS AND STANZAS 

In Islington^ there was a man, 5 

Of whom the world might say, 
That still a godly race he ran, — 

Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes; lo 

The naked every day he clad, — 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 15 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But w^hen a pique began, 
The dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 20 

Around from all the neighbouring streets 

The wondering neighbours ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 



SOJ^GS AND STANZAS 57 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 25 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied : 30 

The man recovered of the bite. 

The dog it was that died. 



AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, 
MRS. MARY BLAIZE 

Good people all, with one accord. 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 5 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighbourhood to please 

With manners wondrous winning; 10 



58 SONGS AND STANZAS 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size, 
She never slumber'd in her pew — 15 

But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver. 

By twenty beaux and more; 
The king himself has follow'd her — 

When she has walk'd before. 20 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all; 
The doctors found, when she was dead — 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore, 25 

For Kent Street° well may say. 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
She had not died to-day. 



SONGS AND STANZAS 59 



EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's° name. 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ! 

Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid; 5 

And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 

While converts thank their poet in the skies. lo 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC 

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys. 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart. 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. 

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 

Wolfe° ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 5 

Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 



60 SONGS AND STANZAS 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : lo 
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 



THE WRETCH CONDEMNED WITH LIFE TO 

PART° 

The wretch condemned with life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang, that rends the heart, 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 5 

Adorns and cheers the way; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

O MEMORY! THOU FOND DECEIVERS 

O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver. 

Still importunate and vain. 
To former joys recurring ever. 

And turning all the past to pain. 



ji 



SONGS AND STANZAS 61 

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, 5 

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; 
And he who wants each other blessing, 

In thee must ever find a foe. 



AH, ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME°? 

Ah, me ! when shall I marry me ? 

Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me : 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 

Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 5 

Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover : 

She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, loses a lover. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study. 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 
regretting 5 

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; 
I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in view. 
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so. 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : lo 

But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear yeu pronounce. 
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce° ? 
Well, suppose it a bounce. — sure a poet may try, 15 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn. 
It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.° 

• 62 



THE HAUNCH OF VEmSON 63 

To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch; 20 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds^ undrest, 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he Uked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's°: 
But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 25 

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 

when. 
There's Howard, and Coley, and H — rth, and Hiff ,° 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef. 
There's my countryman, Higgins° — oh ! let him alone, 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 30 

But, hang it ! — to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.° 
While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 35 

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered ; 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow° was he. 
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. 
^^ What have we got here ? — Why this is good eating ! 
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting?" 40 

"Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce, 
" I get these things often" — but that was a bounce: 



64 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 

*' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 

'^If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, 45 
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be 
there ; 49 

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner. 
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 
What say you — a pasty ? It shall, and it must. 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter ! this venison° with me to Mile-end : 55 
No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend!" 
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables followed behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And ''nobody with me at sea but myself "°; 60 

Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty. 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
Were things that I never disliked in my life. 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 66 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON Qb 

When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
(A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine), 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite 

dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come : 
''For I knew it," he cried: " both eternally fail ; 71 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.° 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make' up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew; 75 

They're both of them merry, and authors like you; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns toPanurge.°" 
While thus he described them, by trade and by name. 
They entered, and dinner was served as they came. 80 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; 
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; 
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 85 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound. 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 

But what vex'd me most was that d d Scottish 

rogue, 

F 



66 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 
brogue, 90 

And, '' Madam," quoth he, '^ may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; 
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 94 
'' The tripe ! " quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners so pretty and small; 
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 
'^ O ! ho ! " quoth my friend, '^ he'll come on in a trice; 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 100 
There's a pasty." — ''A pasty !" repeated the Jew; 
'^I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
"What, the deil, mon, a pasty !" re-echoed the Scot; 
''Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; 105 

"We'll ah keep a corner," was echoed about. 
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed. 
With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid : 
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright. 
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. no 
But we quickly found out — for who could mistake" 

her? — 
That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 67 

And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad PhilomeP thus — but let similes drop — 115 

And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
A relish, a taste — sickened over by learning; 120 

At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 
So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



RETALIATION 

Of old, when Scarron° his companions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; 
If our landlord° supphes us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 
dish : 4 

Our Dean° shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; 
Our Burke° shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; 
Our Will° shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour, 
And Dick° with his pepper shall heighten the savour; 
Our Cumberland's° sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas° is pudding, substantial and plain; lo 
Our Garrick's° a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree; 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
That Ridge° is anchovy, and Reynolds° is lamb; 
That Hickey's° a capon, and, by the same rule, 15 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, 

68 



II 



RETALIATION 69 

Till all my companions sink under the table; 20 

Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth, 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 25 

At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
Here lies our good Edmund, ° whose genius was 

such. 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; 30 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind; 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat. 
To persuade Tommy Townshend° to lend him a vote; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining ; 36 

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit, 
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient. 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 40 



70 RETALIATION 

In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir. 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William,° whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was 

in't: 
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, 45 

His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his 
own. 50 

Here lies honest Richard,° whose fate I must sigh at; 
Alas, that such frohc should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb°; 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; 55 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wished him full ten times a-day at Old Nick ; 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 60 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. 
The Terence^ of England, the mender of hearts; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 






RETALIATION 71 

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 65 
And comedy wonders at being so fine; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; 70 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 75 

To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax. 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 80 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re- 
clines ! 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 85 

Our Dodds° shall be pious, our Kenricks° shall lec- 
ture. 



72 RETALIATION 

Macpherson° write bombast, and call it a style, 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
New Landers and Bowers° the Tweed shall cross over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover; 90 

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 
dark. 
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man; 
As an actor ,° confessed without rival to shine; 95 

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill- judging beauty, his colours he spread. 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 100 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way. 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 104 

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle thehi 

back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. 



RETALIATION 73 

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; no 

Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,° and Woodfalls° so grave, 115 

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 

raised. 
While he was be-Roscius'd,° and you were be-praised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 120 

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love. 
And Beaumonts and Bens° be his Kellys above. 
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant crea- 
ture, 125 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, no, no; for he always was wiser. 130 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly fiat ? 



74 RETALIATION 

His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too fooHshly honest ? Ah, no ! 134 

Then what was his faihng ? come tell it, and burn ye ! 
He was — could he help it ? — a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 140 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 

hearing ; 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios,° and 

stuff, 145 

He shifted his tnmipet, and only took snuff.° 



DRAMAS 

THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 
PREFACE 

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I 
was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of 
the last age, and strove to imitate them. The term, 
genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst us, and 
little more was desired by an audience than nature 
and humour in whatever walks of life they were most 
conspicuous. The author of the following scenes 
never imagined that more would be expected of him, 
and therefore to delineate character has been his prin- 
cipal aim. Those who know anything of composition 
are sensible that, in pursuing humour, it will some- 
times lead us into the recesses of the mean: I was 
even tempted to look for it in the master of a spong- 
ing-house; but, in deference to the public taste, 
grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the 

75 



76 PREFACE 

bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In def- 
erence also to the judgment of a few friends, who 
think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. 
The author submits it to the reader in his closet ; and 
hopes that too much refinement will not banish hu- 
mour and character Jrom ours, as it has already done 
from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy 
is now become so very elevated and sentimental that 
it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the 
stage, but it has banished all spectators too. 

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to 
the public for the favourable reception which the Good- 
Natured Man has met with; and to Mr. Colman in 
particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be 
improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for 
the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever 
be a sufficient passport to his protection. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Men 

Mr. Honey wood .Mr. Powell 

Croaker Mr. Shuter 

Lofty Mr. Woodward 

Sir Willirnn Honeywood . . . .Mr. Clarke 





PREFACE 


7' 


Leontine 




. Mr. Bensley 


Jarvis . 




. Mr. Dunstall 


Butler . 




. Mr. Gushing 


Bailiff . 




. Mr. R. Smith 


Dubardieu . 




. Mr. Holtom 


Postboy 


. . o . 


. Mr. Quick 



Women 



Miss Bichland 
Olivia . 
Mrs. Croaker 
Garnet . 
Landlady 



Mrs. Bulkley 
Mrs. Mattocks 
Mrs. Pitt 
Mrs. Green 
Mrs. White 



Scene — London 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 

PROLOGUE 

WRITTEN BY DE. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY° 

Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind 
Surveys the general toil of human kind, 
With cool submission joins the laboring train, 
And social sorrow loses half its pain : 
Our anxious bard, without complaint may share 5 
This bustling season's epidemic care. 
Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 
Toss'd in one common storm with all the great; 
Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit. 
When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 10 

The busy candidates for power and fame 
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same: 
Disabled both to combat or to fly. 
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. 
Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 15 
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 

79 



80 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 

For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 

Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 

Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 20 

''This day the powder'd curls and golden coat/' 

Says swelling Crispin,° ''begg'd a cobbler's vote." 

''This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, 

"Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies." 

The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe, 25 

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 

Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold. 

He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 

But confident of praise, if praise be due. 

Trusts without fear, to merit, and to you. 30 

ACT THE FIRST 

Scene I. — An Apartment in Young Honeywood's 

House 

Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis 

Sir Will. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the 
best excuse for every freedom. 

Jarv. I can't help being blunt, and being very 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 81 

angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so 5 
good, so worthy a young gentleman as your 
nephew, my master. All the world loves him. 

Sir Will. Say rather, that he loves all the 
world; that is his fault. 

Jarv. I am sure there is no part of it more dear 10 
to him than you are, though he has not seen you 
since he was a child. 

Sir Will. What signifies this affection to me? 
or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where 
every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance ? 15 

Jarv. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
natured; that he's too much every man's man; 
that he laughs this minute with one, and cries the 
next with another; but whose instructions may 
he thank for all this? 20 

Sir Will. Not mine, sure. My letters to him 
during my employment in Italy, taught him only 
that philosophy which might prevent, not defend, 
his errors. 

Jarv. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, 25 
I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; 
it has only served to spoil him. This same phi- 
losophy is a good horse in a stable, but an arrant 
jade on a journey. For my own part, whenever 



82 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

I hear him mention the name on't, I'm always 30 
sure he's going to play the fool. 

Sir Will. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good- 
nature arises rather from his fears of offending the 
importunate, than his desire of making the deserv- 35 
ing happy. 

Jarv. What it arises from, I don't know. But, 
to be sure, everybody has it that asks it. 

Sir Will. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
been now for some time a concealed spectator of 4° 
his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissi- 
pation. 

Jarv. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or 
other for them all. He calls his extravagance, gen- 
erosity; and his trusting everybody, universal be- 45 
nevolence. It was but last week he went security 
for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that 
he called an act of exalted mu — mu — munifi- 
cence; ay, that was the name he gave it. 

Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last 50 
effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim 
him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I 
have taken up the security. Now, my intention is 
to involve him in fictitious distress, before he has 



Scene I] THE OOOD-NATURED MAN 83 

plunged himself into real calamity: to arrest him 55 
For that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and 
then let him see which of his friends will come to 
bis relief. 

Jarv. Well, if I could but any way see him 
thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be 60 
music to me; yet, faith, I believe it impossible. 
[ have tried to fret him myself every morning these 
three years; but instead of being angry, he sits 
IS calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair- 
dresser. 65 

Sir Will. We must try him once more, how- 
ever, and I'll go this instant to put my scheme 
nto execution: and I don't despair of succeeding, 
IS, by your means, I can have frequent opportu- 
nities of being about him without being known, -jo 
^hat a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will 
to others should produce so much neglect of him- 
self, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch 
lis weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are 
some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we 75 
3an scarce weed out the vice without eradicating 
the virtue. [Exit. 

Jarv. Well, go thy ways. Sir William Honey- 
svood. It is not without reason that the world 



84 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes 80 
his hopeful nephew, — the strange, good-natured, 
foolish, open-hearted — And yet, all his faults are 
such that one loves him still the better for them. 

Enter Honeywood 

Honeyw. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
friends this morning? 85 

Jarv. You have no friends. 

Honeyw. Well ; from my acquaintance then ? 

Jarv. {Pulling out hills.) A few of our usual 
cards of compliment, that's all. This bill from your 
tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the 90 
little broker in Crooked-lane. He says he has been 
at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you 
borrowed. 

Honeyw. That I don't know; but I am sure we 
were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to 95 
lend it. 

Jarv. He has lost all patience. 

Honeyw. Then he has lost a very good 
thing. 

Jarv. There's that ten guineas you were send- 100 
ing to the poor gentleman and his children in the 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 85 

Fleet. I believe they would stop his mouth for a 
while at least. 

Honeyw. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
mouths in the mean time? Must I be cruel, be- 105 
cause he happens to be importunate; and, to 
relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable 
distress ? 

Jarv. 'Sdeath ! Sir, the question now is how 
to relieve yourself, — yourself. Haven't I reason no 
to be out of my senses, when I see things going at 
sixes and sevens? 

Honeyiu. Whatever reason you may have for be- 
ing out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm 
not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 115 

Jarv. You are the only man alive in your pres- 
ent situation that could do so. Everything upon 
the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine for- 
tune gone already and upon the point of being given 
to your rival. 120 

Honeyw. I'm no man's rival. 

Jarv. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disin- 
herit you; your own fortune almost spent; and 
nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a 
pack of drunken servants that your kindness has 125 
made unfit for any other family. 



86 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

Honeyw. Then they have the more occasion for 
being in mine. 

Jarv. Soh ! What will you have done with him 
that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In 130 
the fact ; I caught him in the fact. 

Honeyw. In the fact ? If so, I really think that 
we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 

Jarv. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog, 
we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of 135 
the family. 

Honeyw. No, Jarvis: it's enough that we have 
lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss 
of a fellow-creature ! 

Jarv. Very fine ! well, here was the footman 140 
just now, to complain of the butler : he says he does 
most work, and ought to have most wages. 

Honeyw. That's but just; though perhaps here 
comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarv. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 145 
scullion to the privy-councillor. If they have 
a bad master, they keep quarrelling with him; if 
they have a good master, they keep quarrelling 
with one another. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 87 

Enter Butler, drunk 

Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona- 150 
than, you must part with him, or part with me, 
that's the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 

Honey w. Full and explicit enough. But what's 
his fault, good Philip ? 

Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and 1 155 
shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such 
company. 

Honeyw. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 

Jarv. Oh, quite amusing. 

Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir; and liquors 160 
don't go without mouths, sir; I hate a drunkard, 
sir. 

Honeyw. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon 
that another time; so go to bed now. 

Jarv. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 165 

Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and beg- 
ging your pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed, 
nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to 
mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker 
is below. I came on purpose to tell you. 170 

Honeyw. Why didn't you show him up, block- 
head? 



88 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, 
sir. Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit.. 

Jarv. Ay, we have one or other of that family in 175 
this house from morning till night. He comes on 
the old affair, I suppose. The match between 
his son, that's just returned from Paris, and Miss 
Richland, the young lady he's guardian to. 

Honeyw. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing 180 
my friendship for the young lady, has got it into his 
head that I can persuade her to what I please. 

Jarv. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well 
as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that 
would soon set all things to rights again. 185 

Honeyw. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. 
No, no; her intimacy with me never amounted to 
more than friendship — mere friendship. That 
she is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the 
human heart with desire, I own. But never let me 190 
harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a con- 
nection with one so unworthy her merits as I am. 
No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her, even 
in spite of my wishes; and to secure her happi- 
ness, though it destroys my own. 195 

Jarv. Was ever the like? I want patience. 

Honeyw. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 



J 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 89 

Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could suc- 
ceed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife; 
who, though both very fine in their way, are 200 
yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you 
know. 

Jarv. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the 
very reverse of each other: she all laugh, and no 
joke; he always complaining, and never sorrow- 205 
ful; a fretful, poor soul, that has a new distress 
for every hour in the four-and-twenty — 

Honeyw. Hush, hush ! he's coming up, he'll 
hear you. 

Jarv. One whose voice is a passing bell — 210 

Honeyw. Well, well; go, do. 

Jarv. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief ; 
a coffin and cross-bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig 
of deadly nightshade — a — (Honeywood, stopping 
his mouth, at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 215 

Honeyw. I must own my old monitor is not en- 
tirely wrong. There is something in my friend 
Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. 
His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his 
appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than 220 
an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a 
satisfaction — 



90 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

Enter Croaker 

Croak. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honey wood, 
and many of them. How is this ! you look most 
shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this 225 
weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if 
this weather continues — I say nothing — But God 
send we be all better this day three months ! 

Honeyw. I heartily concur in the wish, though, 
I own, not in your apprehensions. 230 

Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
what weather we have in a country going to ruin 
like ours ? Taxes rising and trade falling. Money 
flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming 
into it. I know, at this time, no less than a hun-235 
dred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing 
Cross and Temple Bar. 

Honeyw. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
me, I should hope. 

Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 240 
whom they pervert, in a country that has scarce 
any religion to lose ? I'm only afraid for our wives 
and daughters. 

Honeyw. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
I assure you. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-KATURED MAN 91 

Croak. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whether they be perverted or no ? The women in 
my time were good for something. I have seen a 
lady drest from top to toe in her own manufactures 
formerly ; but now-a-days, the devil a thing of their 250 
own manufactures about them, except their faces. 

Honeyw. But, however these faults may be 
practised abroad, you don't find them at home, 
either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland ? 

Croak. The best of them will never be canon- 255 
ized for a saint when she's dead. — By the bye, 
my dear friend, I don't find this match between 
Miss Richland and my son much relished, either by 
one side or t'other. 

Honeyw. I thought otherwise. 260 

Croak. Ah ! Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine 
serious advice to the young lady might go far: I 
know she has a very exalted opinion of your under- 
standing. 

Honeyw. But would not that be usurping an 265 
authority that more properly belongs to yourself ? 

Croak. My dear friend, you know but little of 
my authority at home. People think, indeed, 
because they see me come out in the morning thus, 
with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, 270 



92 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

that all's well within. But I have cares that would 
break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached, 
upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no 
more than a mere lodger in my own house. 

Honeyw. But a little spirit exerted on your side 275 
might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croak. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I 
do rouse sometimes; but what then? always hag- 
gling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the 
better, before his wife is tired of losing the victory. 280 

Honeyw. It's a melancholy consideration, in- 
deed, that our chief comforts often produce our 
greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our pos- 
sessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. 

Croak. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 2S5 
words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week before 
he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honey- 
wood, I never see you but you put me in mind of 
poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you ! 
and so true a friend ! we loved each other for thirty 290 
years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a sin- 
gle farthing. 

Honeyw. Pray what could induce him to com- 
mit so rash an action at last? 

Croak. I don't know; some people were mali-295 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 93 

cious enough to say it was keeping company with 
me, because we used to meet now and then and 
open our hearts to each other. To be sure, I loved 
to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk: 
poor, dear Dick ! He used to say that Croaker 300 
rhymed to joker; and so we used to laugh — Poor 
Dick ! [Going to cry. 

Honeyw. His fate affects me. 

Croak. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, 305 
dress and undress, get up and lie down; while 
reason, that should watch like a nurse by our side, 
falls as fast asleep as we do. 

Honeyw. To say a truth, if we compare that 
part of life which is to come by that which we have 310 
past the prospect is hideous. 

Croak. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a 
forward child, that must be humoured and coaxed 
a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is 
over. 315 

Honeyw. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the 
vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pur- 
suits. We wept when we came into the world, and 
every day tells us why. 

Croak. Ah ! my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 320 



94 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

faction to be miserable with you. My son Leon- 
tine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. 
I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show 
him so much seriousness in one scarce older than 
himself. And what if I bring my last letter to the 325 
Gazetteer, on the increase and progress of earth- 
quakes ? It will amuse us, I promise you. I there 
prove how the late earthquake is coming round to 
pay us another visit — from London to Lisbon, 
from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, from the Ca- 330 
nary Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Con- 
stantinople, and so from Constantinople back to 
London again. [Exit. 

Honeyw. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves 
the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits 335 
these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, 
is worse than death itself. And yet, when I con- 
sider my own situation, — a broken fortune, a hope- 
less passion, friends in distress, the wish, but not 
the power to serve them — [Pausing and sighing. 340 

Enter Butler 

Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker 
and Miss Richland ; shall I show them up ? — but 
they're showing up themselves. [Exit, 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 95 

Enter. M.ns. Croaker and Miss Richland 

Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croak. We have just com«, my dear Hon- 345 
eywood, from the auction. There was the old deaf 
dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against her- 
self. And then so curious in antiques ! herself, 
the most genuine piece of antiquity in the whole 
collection. 350 

Honeyw. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
from friendship makes me unfit to share in this 
good humour: I know you'll pardon me. 

Mrs. Croak. I vow he seems as melancholy as 
if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. 355 
Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. 

Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, 
madam, that I have particular reasons for being 
disposed to refuse it. 

Mrs. Croak. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 360 
don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Hon- 
eywood's long friendship and mine should be mis- 
understood. 

Honeyw. There's no answering for others, 365 
madam. But I hope you'll never find me presum- 



96 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

ing to offer more than the most dehcate friendship 
may readily allow. 

Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a 
tribute from you, -than the most passionate pro- 3^0 
fessions from others. 

Honeyw. My own sentiments, madam: friend- 
ship is a disinterested commerce between equals; 
love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and 
slaves. 375 

Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know 
none more disinterested, or more capable of friend- 
ship than Mr. Honeywood. 

Mrs. Croak. And, indeed, I know nobody that 
has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss 380 
Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom 
praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy 
Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 

Miss Rich. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But 385 
is she seriously so handsome? Is she the mighty 
thing talked of? 

Honeyw. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
praise a lady's beauty, till she's beginning to M\ 
lose it. [Smiling. 390 

Mrs. Croak. But she's resolved never to lose 



I 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATUBED MAN 97 

it, it seems. For as her natural face decays, her 
skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, 
nothing diverts me more than one of those fine, 
old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age 395 
by everywhere exposing her person; sticking her- 
self up in the front of a side-box ; trailing through 
a minuet at Almack's,° and then, in the public gar- 
dens — looking, for all the world, like one of the 
painted ruins° of the palace. 400 

Honeyw. Every age has its admirers, ladies. 
While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer 
climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry 
on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes be- 
yond fifty. 405 

Miss Rich. But, then, the mortifications they 
must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. 
I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at 
her hair dresser, when all the fault was her face. 

Honeyw. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that 410 
face at last to a very good market. This good- 
natured town, madam, has husbands, like specta- 
cles, to fit every age from fifteen to fourscore. 

Mrs. Croak. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
creature. But you know you're engaged with us 415 
this morning upon a strolling party. I want to 

H 



98 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

show Olivia the town, and the things: I beheve I 
shall have business for you the whole day. 

Honeyw. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to 420 
put off. 

Mrs. Croak. What ! with my husband ? Then 
I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you 
must. You know I never laugh so much as with 
you. 425 

Honeyw. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
you have put me. into such spirits. Well, do you 
find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll • 
wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt. 

Enter Leontine and Olivia 



Leont. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 430 
My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you 
capable of sharing in their amusements, and as 
cheerful as they are ! 

Oliv. How, my dear Leontine, how can I be 
cheerful, when I have so many terrors to oppress 435 
me? The fear of being detected by this family, 
and the apprehensions of a censuring world, when 
I must be detected — 



I 



Scene I] THE GOOB-KATURED MAUT 99 

Leont. The world, my love ! what can it say ? 
At worst it can only say that, being compelled by 440 
a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you dis- 
liked, you formed a resolution of flying with the 
man of your choice; that you confided in his 
honour, and took refuge in my father's house; 
the only one where yours could remain without 445 
censure. 

Oliv. But consider, Leontine, your disobe- 
dience and my indiscretion; your being sent to 
France to bring home a sister, and, instead of a 
sister, bringing home — 450 

Leont. One dearer than a thousand sisters. 
One that I am convinced will be equally dear to 
the rest of the family, when she comes to be known. 

Oliv. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 

Leont. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper 455 
to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has 
been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a 
child, and you find every creature in the family 
takes you for her. 

Oliv. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 460 
write ? 

Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all 
my sister's letters are directed to me. 



100 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act I 

Oliv. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, 
for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, 465 
create a suspicion ? 

Leont. There, there's my master-stroke. I have 
resolved not to refuse her; nay, an hour hence I 
have consented to go with my father to make her 
an offer of my heart and fortune. 47° 

Oliv. Your heart and fortune ! 

Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 
Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, 
as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from 
any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force, 475 
nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion, 
leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss 
Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse; 
as I am confident, that, without knowing it, her 
affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 480 

Oliv. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my ap- 
prehensions ; but when your merits come to be put 
in the balance — 

Leont. You view them with too much partiality. 
However, by making this offer, I show a seeming 485 
compliance with my father's command; and per- 
haps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to 
choose for myself. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 101 

Oliv. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I 
own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. 490 
I consider every look, every expression of your es- 
teem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps; I 
allow it; but it is natural to suppose, that merit 
which has made an impression on one's own heart 
may be powerful over that of another. 495 

Leont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, 
if Miss Richland should consent, or my father re- 
fuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland° ; 500 
and — 

Enter Croaker 

Croak. Where have you been, boy? I have 
been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has 
been saying such comfortable things ! Ah ! he's 
an example indeed. Where is he? I left him 505 
here. 

Leont. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear 
him, too, in the next room: he's preparing to go 
out with the ladies. 

Croak. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes 510 
or my ears ! I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, 



102 THE GOOD-NATURED MAX [Act I 

and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was 
there ever such a transformation ! (A laugh he- 
hind the scenes; Croaker mimics it.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
there it goes ; a plague take their balderdash ! yet 515 
I could expect nothing less, when my precious wife 
was of the party. On my conscience, I believe 
she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews 
of a tabernacle. 

Leont. Since you find so many objections to a 520 
wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recommend- 
ing one to me ? 

Croak. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, 
that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of 
the family; one may find comfort in the money, 525 
whatever one does in the wife. 

Leont. But, sir, though, in obedience to your 
desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
she has no inclination to me. 

Croak. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. 530 
A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune con- 
sists in a claim upon Government, which my good 
friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury will 
allow. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her 
father's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So, 535 
if she rejects you, we seize half her fortune; if she 






Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 103 

accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl into 
the bargain. 

Leont. But, sir, if you will listen to reason — 

Croak. Come, then, produce your reasons. 1 540 
tell you, I'm fixed, determined; so now produce 
your reasons. When I'm determined, I always 
listen to reason because it can then do no harm. 

Leont. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 545 

Croak. Well, and you have both of you a mu- 
tual choice. She has her choice, — to marry you 
or lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice, 
— to marry her, or pack out of doors, without any 
fortune at all. 550 

Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more in- 
dulgence. 

Croak. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience; besides, has not your sister here, that 
never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as 555 
you? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would 
take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he 
shan't ; for you shall have your share. 

Oliv. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced, that 
I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune 560 
which is taken from his. 



104 THE GOOD-NATURED MAX [Act II 

Croak. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no 
more ; but come with me, and we shall see some- 
thing that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I 
promise you, — old Ruggins, the curry-comb 565 
maker, lying in state. I am told he makes a very 
handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodi- 
giously. He was an intimate friend of mine, and 
these are friendly things we ought to do for each 
other. [Exeunt. 570 

ACT THE SECOND 

Scene I. — Croaker's House 

Miss Richland, Garnet 



Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister ! Olivia not 
Leontine's sister ? You amaze me ! 

Gar. No more his sister than I am; I had it all 
from his own servant; I can get anything from 
that quarter. 

Miss Rich. But how? Tell me again. Garnet. 

Gar. Why, madam, as I told you before, in- 
stead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, 
who has been there with her aunt these ten years, 
he never went farther than Paris ; there he saw and 10 



I 



Scene 1] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 105 

fell in love with this young lady, — by the bye, of 
a prodigious family. 

Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guar- 
dian as his daughter ? 

Gar. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 15 
don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying 
what a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Rich. Well, I own they have deceived me. 
— And so demurely as Olivia carried it, too ! — 
Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my 20 
secrets ; and yet ' the sly cheat concealed all this 
from me ? 

Gar. And, upon my word, madam, I don't 
much blame her : she was loath to trust one with 
her secrets, that was so very bad at keeping her 25 
own. 

Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the 
young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me 
serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be 
here presently, to open the affair in form. You 30 
know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse 
him. 

Gar. Yet, what can you do? For being, as 
you are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam — 

Miss Rich. How ! idiot, what do you mean ? 35 



106 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to pro- 
voke me ? 

Gar. That is, madam, in friendship with him: 
I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to 
be married ; nothing more. 4° 

Miss Rich. Well, no more of this. As to my 
guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared 
to receive them : I'm resolved to accept their pro- 
posal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by 
compliance and so throw the refusal at last upon 45 
them. 

Gar. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought 
so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 

Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 50 
dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they 
have taught me against themselves. 

Gar. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
ployment, for here they come, and in close confer- 
ence. 55 

Enter Croaker and Leontine 

Leont. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate 
upon the point of putting to the lady so important 
a question. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 107 

Croak. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; 
you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had 60 
changed sexes. 1 tell you we must have the half 
or the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit 
you begin: Well, why don't you? Eh! What? 
Well, then, I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my 
dear, I believe you guess at our business ; an affair 65 
which my son here comes to open, that nearly con- 
cerns your happiness. 

Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to 
be pleased with anything that comes recommended 
by you. 70 

Croak. How, boy, could you desire a finer open- 
ing ? Why don't you begin, I say ? [To Leontine. 

Leont. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, 
has some intentions — hem — of explaining an 
affair — which — himself can best explain, madam. 75 

Croak. Yes, my dear; it comes entirely from 
my son; it's all a request of his own, madam. And 
I will permit him to make the best of it. 

Leont. The whole affair is only this, madam: 
my father has a proposal to make, which he insists 8c 
none but himself shall deliver. 

Croak. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
never be brought on. (Aside.) In short, madam, 



108 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

you see before you one that loves you — one whose 
whole happiness is all in you. 85 

Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your re- 
gards, sir; and I hope you can have none of my 
duty. 

Croak. That's not the thing, my little sweeting ; 
my love ! No, no, another guess lover than 1 : 90 
there he stands, madam; his very looks declare 
the force of his passion — Call up a look, you dog ! 
{Aside.) — But then, had you seen him, as I have, 
weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, 
sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent — 95 

Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now; or 
such a declaration would have come most prop- 
erly from himself. 

Croak. Himself, madam ! he would die before 
he could make such a confession ; and if he had 100 
not a channel for his passion through me, it would 
ere now have drowned his understanding. 

Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- 
tions in modest diffidence above the force of words. 
A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. 105 

Croak. Madam, he has forgot to speak any 
other language; silence is become his mother- 
tongue. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 109 

Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet I no 
shall be thought too forward in making such a 
confession; shan't I, Mr. Leontine? 

Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may dis- 
gust her. I'll try. {Aside.) Don't imagine from 115 
my silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the 
honour and happiness intended me. My father, 
madam, tells me your humble servant is not to- 
tally indifferent to you — he admires you : I adore 
you; and when we come together, upon my soul, 120 
I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. 
James's. 

Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought 
as you speak, sir — 

Leont. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your 125 
dear self I swear ! Ask the brave if they desire 
glory ? ask cowards if they covet safety — 

Croak. Well, well, no more questions about it. 

Leont. Ask the sick if they long for health ; ask 
misers if they love money ? ask — 130 

Croak. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ! 
What's come over the boy ? What signifies asking, 
when there's not a soul to give you an answer? 



110 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

If you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's 
consent to make you happy. 135 

Miss Rich. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
ardour almost compels me — forces me to comply. 
And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained * 
with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine ? 

Leont. Confusion ! {Aside.) Oh, by no means, 140 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you 
talked of force. The^e is nothing I would avoid 
so much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, 
madam, I will still be generous, and leave you at 
liberty to refuse. 145 

Croak. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at lib- 
erty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
Silence gives consent. 

Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, 
sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 150 

Croak. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't 
you know, blockhead, that girls have always a 
round-about way of saying yes before company? 
So get you both gone together into the next room, 
and hang him that interrupts the tender expla- 155 
nation. Get you gone, I say; I'll not hear a 
word. 

Leont. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 



f 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 111 

Croak. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to 
insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! i6o 
But I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his 
mother. [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker 

Mrs. Croak. Mr. Croaker, I bring you some- 
thing, my dear, that I believe yjJ^ make you smile. 

Croak. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 165 

Mrs. Croak. A letter; and, as I knew the hand, 
I ventured to open it. 

Croak. And how can you expect your breaking 
open my letters should give me pleasure ? 

Mrs. Croak. Pooh ! it's from your sister at 170 
Lyons, and contains good news : read it. 

Croak. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That 
sister of mine has some good qualities ; but I could 
never teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croak. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it 175 
contains. 

Croaker (reading) 

" Dear Nick, — An English gentleman, of 
large fortune, has for some time made private, 
though honourable proposals to your daughter 



112 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN . [Act II 

Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find i8o 
she has consented, without letting any of the fam- 
ily know, to crown his addresses. As such good 
offers don't come every day, your own good sense, 
his large fortune, and family considerations, will 
induce you to forgive her. 185 

" Yours ever, 

"Rachael Croaker." 

My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man 
of large fortune ! This is good news indeed. My 
heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how 190 
slyly the little baggage has carried it since she 
came home; not a word on't to the old ones for 
the world. Yet I thought I saw something she 
wanted to conceal. 

Mrs. Croak. Well, if they have concealed their 195 
amour, they shan't conceal their wedding; that 
shall be public, I'm resolved. 

Croak. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never 
get this woman to think of the most serious part 200 
of the nuptial engagement. 

Mrs. Croak. What, would you have me think of 
their funeral ? But come, tell me, my dear, don't 



i 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 113 

you owe more to me than you care to confess ? — 
Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, 205 
who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the 
Treasury, but for me ? Who was it first made him 
an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout ? Who 
got him to promise us his interest? Is not he a 
back-stair favourite, one that can do what he 210 
pleases with those that do what they please? Is 
not he an acquaintance that all your groaning and 
lamentations could never have got us? 

Croak. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
And yet, what amazes me is, that, while he is giv-215 
ing away places to all the world, he can't get one 
for himself. 

Mrs. Croak. That, perhaps, may be owing to 
his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 

Enter French Servant 

Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He 220 
vil be vait upon your honours instammant. He 
be only giving four five instruction, read two tree 
memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be 
vid you in one tree minutes. 

Mrs. Croak. You see now, my dear. What an 225 



114 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN ' [Act II 

extensive department ! Well, friend, let your master 
know that we are extremely honoured by this, 
honour. Was there anything ever in a higher style 
of breeding? All messages among the great are 
now done by express. [Exit French Servant. 230 

Croak. To be sure, no man does little things 
with more solemnity, or claims more respect than 
he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, 
respect is given where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croak. Never mind the world, my dear ,"235 
you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
Let us now think of receiving him with proper 
respect, (a loud rapping at the door,) and there he 
is, by the thundering rap. 

Croak. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the 240 
heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon 
the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive 
him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for in- 
tending to steal a marriage without mine or her 
aunt's consent. I must seem to be angr}^, or she 245 
too may begin to despise my authority. [Exit. 

Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant 

Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that 
teasing creature, the Marquis, should call, I'm not 



m 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 115 

at home. Dam'me, Til be pack-horse to none of 
them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a 250 
moment — And if the expresses to his Grace be 
ready, let them be sent off; they're of importance. 
Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour — 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! If the person calls about 255 
the commission, let him know that it is made out. 
As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can 
keep cold : you understand me. — Madam, I ask 
ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir, this honour — 260 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! if the man comes from 
the Cornish borough, you must do him; you must 
do him, I say — Madam, I ask ten thousand par- 
dons. — And if the Russian ambassador calls ; but 
he will scarce call to-day, I believe. — And now, 265 
madam, I have just got time to express my happi- 
ness in having the honour of being permitted to 
profess myself your most obedient, humble ser- 
vant. 

Mrs. Croak. Sir, the happiness and honour are all 270 
mine; and yet, I'm only robbing the pubhc while 
I detain you. 

Lofty: Sink the public, madam, when the fair 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so 
charmingly devoted! Sincerely, don't you pity 275 
us poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is eternally; 
solicited for places here, teased for pensions there, 
and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. 

Yes, I see you do. 

Mrs. Croak. Excuse me, sir, '^ Toils of empires 280 

pleasures are," as Waller says. 

Lojty. Waller, Waller; is he of the House? 
Mrs. Croak. The modern poet of that name, 

sir 

Lofty. Oh, a modern! We men of business 28. 
despise the moderns; and as for the ancients, we 
have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty 
thing enough for our wives and daughters; but 
not for us. Why now, here I stand, that know 
nothing of books. I say, madam, I know nothing 29 
of books; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carnage 
fishery ,° a stamp act, or a jag-hire,^ I can talk my 
two hours without feeling the want of them. 

Mrs. Croak. The world is no stranger to Mr. 
Lofty's eminence in every capacity. ^9T 

Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. " 
I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere 
obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two 



I 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 117 

of the present ministers are pleased to represent me 
as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to 300 
bespatter me at all their little, dirty levees. Yet, 
upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to 
treat me so ! Measures, not men, have always 
been my mark; and I vow, by all that's honour- 
able, my resentment has never done the men, as 305 
mere men, any manner of harm, — that is, as mere 
men. 

Mrs. Croak. What importance, and yet what 
modesty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, 310 
there I own I'm accessible to praise; modesty is 
my foible; it was so the Duke of Brentford used 
to say of me. ^'I love Jack Lofty," he used to 
say: '^no man has a finer knowledge of things; 
quite a man of information; and when he speaks 315 
upon his legs, by the Lord, he's prodigious, — he 
scouts them; and yet all men have their faults; 
too much modesty is his," says his Grace. 

Mrs. Croak. And yet, I dare say, you don't 
want assurance when you come to solicit for your 320 
friends. 

Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apro- 
pos ! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's 



118 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

case to a certain personage; we must name no 
names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. 325 
No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine 
girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of 
mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, ' 
Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business 
must be done, sir. That's my way, madam. 330 

Mrs. Croak. Bless me ! you said all this to the 
Secretary of State, did you ? 

Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I? 
Well, curse it, since you have found me out, I will 
not deny it. It was to the Secretary. 335 

Mrs. Croak. This was going to the fountain-^ 
head at once, not applying to the understrappers, 
as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. 

Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, 
a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what 340 
has just happened to him? 

Mrs. Croak. Poor dear man ! no accident, I 
hope ? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His cred- 
itors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in 345 
his own house ! 

Mrs. Croak. A prisoner in his own house ! How ? 
At this very time? I'm quite unhappy for him. 






Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 119 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, 
was immensely good-natured. But then, I could 350 
never find that he had anything in him. 

Mrs. Croak. His manner, to be sure, was exces- 
sive harmless; some, indeed, thought it a little 
dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. 

Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam; the man 355 
was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor, 
impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to 
know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce 
talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs. Croak. How differently does Miss Rich- 360 
land think of him ! For, I believe, with all his 
faults, she loves him. 

Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should 
cure her of that, by all means. Let me see; what 
if she were sent to him this instant, in his present 365 
doleful situation? My life for it, that works her 
cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Sup- 
pose we join her in the next room? Miss Rich- 
land is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not 
be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, 1 370 
have a regard for Miss Richland; and, rather than 
she should be thrown away, I should think it no 
indignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. 



120 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IT 

Enter Olivia and Leontine 

Leont. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did 375 
everything in my power to deserve it. Her indeli- 
cacy surprises me. 

Oliv. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indeli- 
cate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear 
I shall be the most guilty thing alive. 380 

Leont. But you mistake, my dear. ' The same 
attention I used to advance my merit with you, I 
practised to lessen it with her. What more could 
I do? 

Oliv. Let us now rather consider what is to be 385 
done. We have both dissembled too long. — I 
have always been ashamed — I am now quite 
weary of it. Sure, I could never have undergone 
so much for any other but you. 

Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal 390 
to your kindest compliance. Though our friends 
should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon 
content for the deficiencies of fortune. 

Oliv. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
humble happiness, when it is now in our power? 395 
I may be the favourite of your father, it is true; 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 121 

but can it ever be thought that his present kind- 
ness to a supposed child will continue to a known 
deceiver ? 

Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As 400 
his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His 
own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. 
Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, 
and find all his answers exactly to our wish. 
Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from 405 
him, I am induced to think he knows of this 
affair. 

Oliv. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness 
too great to be expected. 

Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have 410 
power over him; and am persuaded, if you in- 
formed him of our situation, that he would be dis- 
posed to pardon it. 

Oliv. You had equal expectations, Leontine, 
from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which 415 
you find has succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leont. And that's the best reason for trying 
another. 

Oliv. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. 420 
Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just re- 



122 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

tire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, 
either to share your danger, or confirm your vie- . 
tory. [Exit. 

Enter Croaker 

Croak. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not 425 
too easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up 
the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only 
to impress her with an idea of my authority. 

Oliv. How I tremble to approach him ! 
Might I presume, sir, — if I interrupt j^ou — 430 

Croak. No, child, where I have an affection, it 
is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection 
gets over little things. 

Oliv. Sir, you're too kind. Fm sensible how 
ill I deserve this partiality; yet, Heaven knows, 435 
there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croak. And you have but too well succeeded, 
you little hussy, you. With those endearing ways 
of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought 
to forgive anything, unless it were a very great 440 
offence indeed. 

Oliv. But mine is such an offence — When you 
know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though 
I feel the greatest pain in the confession. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 123 

Croak. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, 445 
you may spare yourself the trouble; for I know 
every syllable of the matter before you begin. 

Oliv. Indeed ! then I'm undone. 

Croak. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
without letting me know it, did you ! But I'm 450 
not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's 
to be a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to 
have no hand in the disposal of my own children ! : 
No, I'm nobody ! I'm to be a mere article of fam- 
ily lumber; a piece of cracked china, to be stuck 455 
up in a corner. 

Oliv. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your 
authority could induce us to conceal it from you. 

Croak. No, no, my consequence is no more; 
I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in win- 460 
ter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till 
there comes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex 
her. [Aside. 

Oliv. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask 465 
it. But your severity shall never abate my affec- 
tion, as my punishment is but justice. 

Croak. And yet you should not despair, nei- 
ther, Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 



124 THE GOOB-NATURED MAN [Act II 

Oliv. And do you permit me to hope, sir? 470 
Can I ever expect to be forgiven? But hope has. 
too long deceived me. 

Croak. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
now, for I forgive you this very moment; I for- 
give you all; and now you are indeed my daugh-475 
ter. 

Oliv. Oh, transport ! this kindness overpowers 
me. 

Croak. I was always against severity to our 
children. We have been young and giddy our- 480 
selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be 
old before their time. 

Oliv. What generosity ! But can you forget 
the many falsehoods, the dissimulation — 

Croak. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin, 485 
you; but where's the girl that won't dissemble for 
a husband? My wife and I had never been mar- 
ried, if we had not dissembled a little before- 
hand. 

Oliv. It shall be my future care never to put 490 
such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
partner of my offence and folly, from his native 
honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I 
can answer for him that — 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 125 

Enter Leontine 

Leont. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 495 
(Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude 
for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even 
exceeds all your former tenderness: I now can 
boast the most indulgent of fathers. The life 
he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling 500 
blessing. 

Croak. And, good sir, who sent for you, with 
that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner ? I 
don't know what we have to do with your grati- 
tude upon this occasion. 505 

Leont. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent, 
when so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the 
pleasure of being grateful? of adding my thanks 
to my Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that 
you have thus occasioned? 510 

Croak. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough with- 
out your coming in to make up the party. I don't 
know what's the matter with the boy all this day; 
he has got into such a rhodomontade manner all 
this morning ! 515 

Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in 
the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy ? Is 



126 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act II 

the being admitted to your favour so slight an obh- 
gation ? Is the happiness of marrying Ohvia so 
small a blessing ? 520 

Croak. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! 
marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of 
his senses. His own sister ! 

Leont. My sister ! 

Oliv. Sister ! how have I been mistaken ! 525 

[Aside. 

Leont. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 

[Aside. 

Croak. What does the booby mean? or has he 
any meaning ? Eh, what do you mean, you block- 
head, you? 

Leont. Mean, sir — why, sir — only when 530 
my sister is to be married, that I have the 
pleasure of marrying her, sir; that is, of giv- 
ing her away, sir — I have made a point of 
it. 

Croak. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You 535 
have made a point of it? Then you had as good 
make a point of first giving away yourself, as Fm 
going to prepare the writings betw^een you and 
Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is 
here about nothing! Why, what's the matter 540 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 127 

now? I thought I had made you, at least, as 
happy as you could wish. 

OUv. Oh, yes, sir; very happy. 

Croak. Do you foresee anything, child? You 
look as if you did. I think if anything was to be 545 
foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another; 
and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit. 

Leontine and Olivia 

Oliv. What can it mean ? 

Leont. He knows something, and yet, for my life, 
I can't tell what. 550 

Oliv. It can't be the connection between us, 
I'm pretty certain. 

Leont. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved 
to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our morti- 
fication. I'll haste and prepare for our journey to 555 
Scotland this very evening. My friend Honey- 
wood has promised me his advice and assistance. 
I'll go to him, and repose our distresses on his 
friendly bosom ; and I know so much of his honest 
heart, that if he can't relieve our uneasiness, he 560 
will at least share them. [Exeunt. 



128 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

ACT THE THIRD 

Scene I. — Young Honeywood's House 

Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower 

Bail. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men 
as you in my time : no disparagement of you nei- 
ther : men that would go forty guineas on a game 
of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a man 
in more genteeler practice than myself. 5 

Honeyw. Without all question, Mr. — I forget 
your name, sir. 

Bail. How can you forget what you never 
knew ? he ! he ! he ! 

Honeyw. May I beg leave to ask your name ? lo 

Bail. Yes, you may. 

Honeyw. Then, pray, sir, what is your name? 

Bail. That I didn't promise to tell you. He ! 
he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among 
us that practise the law. 15 

Honeyw. You may have reason for keeping it a 
secret, perhaps? 

Bail. The law does nothing without reason. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 129 

I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If 
you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus, 20 
that I should prove my name — But come, Tim- 
othy Twitch is my name. And, now you know 
my name, what have you to say to that ? 

Honeyw. Nothing in the world, good Mr. 
Twitch, but that I have a favour to ask, that's 25 
all. 

Bail. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
granted, as we say among us that practise the law. 
I have taken an oath against granting favours. 
Would you have me perjure myself? 30 

Honeyw. But my request will come recom- 
mended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll 
have no scruple {pulling out his purse). The 
thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to dis- 
charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest; 35 
but as I would not have the affair known for the 
world, I have thoughts of keeping you, and your 
good friend here, about me, till the debt is dis- 
charged; for which I shall be properly grateful. 

Bail. Oh ! that's another maxum, and alto- 40 
gether within my oath. For certain, if an honest 
man is to get anything by a thing, there's no rea- 
son why all things should not be done in civility. 

K 



130 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

Honeyw. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch; and yours is a necessary one. 45 

[Gives him money. 

Bail. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour 
takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing 
but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can 
say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, 
ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentle- 50 
man, I have taken money not to see him for ten 
weeks together. 

Honeyw. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 

Bail. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't 55 
know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. 
If all that I have lost by my heart was put together, 
it would make a — but no matter for that. 

Honeyw. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us 60 
of the conscious happiness of having acted with 
humanity ourselves. 

Bail. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better 
than gold. I love humanity. People may say, 
that we in our way have no humanity; but I'll 65 
show you my humanity this moment. There's 
my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 131 

four children — a guinea or two would be more to 
him, than twice as much to another. Now, as I 
can't show him an humanity myself, I must beg 70 
leave you'll do it for me. 

Honeyw. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
most powerful recommendation. 

[Giving money to the follower. 

Bail. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business; 75 
we are to be with you here as your friends, I sup- 
pose. But set in case company comes. — Little 
Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ; a very 
good face ; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say 
among us that practise the law. Not well in 80 
clothes. Smoke° the pocket-holes. 

Honeyw. Well, that shall be remedied without 
delay. 

Enter Servant 

Serv. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 

Honeyw. How unlucky ! Detain her a mo- 85 
ment. We must improve, my good friend, little 
Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. 
Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the 
brown and silver — Do you hear ? 



132 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

Serv. That your honour gave away to the beg- 90 
ging gentleman that makes verses, because it was 
as good as new. 

Honeyw. The white and gold, then. 

Serv. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, 
because it was good for nothing. 95 

Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand, 
then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan 
would look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 

Bail. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
well in anything. Ah, if your honour knew that 100 
bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in 
love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the 
four counties after a shy-cock than he: scents like 
a hound; sticks like a weasel. He was master of 
the ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco,° 105 
when I took him to follow me. {Re-enter Flani- 
gan.) Heh ! ecod, I think he looks so well, that 
I don't care if I have a suit from the same place 
for myself. 

Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming, no 
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend di- 
rections not to speak. As for yourself, I know 
you will say nothing without being directed. 

Bail. Never you fear me; I'll show the lady I 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 133 

have something to say for myself as well as an- 115 
other. One man has one way of talking, another 
man has another, that's all the difference between 
them. 

Enter Miss Richland and her Maid 

Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this 
visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for 120 
choosing my little library. 

Honeyw. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary; as 
it was I that was obliged by your commands. 
Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. 
Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit 125 
without ceremony. 

Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be ? 
I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. 

[Aside. 

Bail. (After a pause.) Pretty weather; very 
pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. 130 

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the 
country, 

Honeyw. You officers are generally favourites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The 135 



134 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils 
of the brave. 

Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, 
I presume, sir? 140 

Honeyw. Why, madam, they do — occasion- 
ally serve in the fleet, madam. A dangerous ser- 
vice ! 

Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often 
surprised me, that while we have had so many 145 
instances of bravery there, we have had so few of 
wit at home to praise it. 

Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets have 
not written as our sailors have fought; but they 
have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst° 150 
could do no more. 

Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a 
fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Honeyw. We should not be so severe against 
dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dull- 155 
est writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who 
presumes to despise him. 

Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, 
and all that belongs to them ! 

Miss Rich. Sir ! 160 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 135 

Honeyw. Ha ! ha ! ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan ! A 
true EngHsh officer, madam; he's not contented 
with beating the French, but he will scold them too. 

Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honey wood, this does not 
convince me but that severity in criticism is neces- 165 
sary. It was our first adopting the severity of 
French taste, that has brought them in turn to 
taste us. 

Bail. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they 
devour us ! Give Monseers but a taste, and I'll be 170 
damn'd but they come in for a belly full. 

Miss Rich. Very extraordinary this ! 

FoUoiver. But very true. What makes the 
bread rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What 
makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle 175 
vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three- 
pence-halfpenny a pot ? — 

Honeyw. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out. 
(Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my 
word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a par- 180 
allel, madam, between the mental taste and that 
of our senses. We are injured as much by the 
French severity in the one, as by French rapacity 
in the other. That's their meaning. 

Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the 185 



136 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes 
pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now 
and then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 

Bail. That's all my eye. The King only can 
pardon, as the law says : for set in case — igg 

Honeyw. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see 
the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, 
our presuming to pardon any work is arrogating a 
power that belongs to another. If all have power 
to condemn, what writer can be free ? 195 

Bail. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
can set him free at any time : for set in case — 

Honeyw. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to 200 
be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 

Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you 
know — 

Honeyw. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke forever, 
you could not improve the last observation. For 205 
my own part, I think it conclusive. 

Bail. As for the matter of that, mayhap — 

Honeyw. Nay, sir, give me leave, in this in- 
stance, to be positive. For where is the necessity 
of censuring works without genius, which must 210 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 137 

shortly sink of themselves: what is it, but aiming 
an unnecessary blow against a victim already under 
the hands of justice? 

Bail. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talk 
about justice, I think I am at home there; for, in 215 
a course of law — 

Honeyw. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
you'd be at, perfectly; and I believe the lady must 
be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. 
I suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of 220 
his course of law. 

Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
only that you answer one gentleman before he has 
finished, and the other before he has well begun. 

Bail. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and 1 225 
will make the matter out. This here question is 
about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the 
like of they. Now, to explain the thing — 

Honeyw. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [Aside. 

Enter Servant 

Serv. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 230 
with you upon earnest business. 
Honeyw. That's lucky. (Aside.) Dear madam, 



138 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

you'll excuse me and my good friends here, for a 
few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse 
you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no cere- 235 
mony with such friends. After you, sir. Excuse 
me. Well, if I must. But I know your natural . 
politeness. 

Bail. Before and behind, you know. 

Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and 240 
behind. 

[Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 

Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet? 

Gar. Mean, madam ! why, what should it 
mean, but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see? 
These people he calls officers, are officers sure 245 
enough: sheriff's officers; bailiffs, madam. 

Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet 
I own there is something very ridiculous in them, 
and a just punishment for his dissimulation. 250 

Gar. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, 
that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts 
and set him free, has not done it by this time. He 
ought at least to have been here before now. But 
lawyers are always more ready to get a man into 255 
troubles than out of them. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 139 

Enter Sir William 

Sir Will. For Miss Richland to undertake set- 
ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It 
has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. 
Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a num- 260 
ber of worthless friendships, he has made one ac- 
quisition of real value; for there must be some 
softer passion on her side that prompts this gen- 
erosity. Ha ! here before me ? I'll endeavour to 
sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person 265 
that have had some demands upon the gentleman 
of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, before I 
enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. 

Miss Rich. The precaution was very unneces- 
sary, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as 270 
my agent had power to satisfy. 

Sir Will. Partly, madam. But I was also will- 
ing you should be fully apprized of the character 
of the gentleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very 111275 
grace from you. To censure it, after what you 
have done, would look like malice; and to speak 
favourably of a character you have oppressed, 
would be impeaching your own. And sure his 



140 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, 280 
may atone for many faults. 

Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is 
exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally use- * 
less. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears 
when diffused too widely. They who pretend 285 
most to this universal benevolence are either de- 
ceivers or dupes, — men who desire to cover their 
private ill-nature by a pretended regard for all; 
or men, who, reasoning themselves into false feel- 
ings, are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than 290 
of useful virtues. 

Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, 
who has probably been a gainer by the folly of 
others, so severe in his censure of it. 

Sir Will. Whatever I have gained by folly, 295 
madam, you see I am willing to prevent your losing 
by it. 

Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnec- 
essary. I always suspect those services which are 
denied where they are wanted, and offered, per- 300 
haps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions 
have been given, and I insist upon their being 
complied with. 

Sir Will. Thou amiable woman ! I can no 



i 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 141 

longer contain the expressions of my gratitude, my 305 
pleasure. You see before you one who has been 
equally careful of his interest; one who has for 
some time been a concealed spectator of his follies, 
and only punished in hopes to reclaim them, — 
his uncle ! 310 

Miss Rich. Sir William Honey wood ! You 
amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion? 
I fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in 
my services. I confess I — 

Sir Will. Don't make any apologies, madam. 315 
I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. 
And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to 
serve you. Having learnt, madam, that you had 
some demands upon Government, I have, though 
unasked, been your solicitor there. 320 

Miss Rich. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
intentions. But my guardian has employed an- 
other gentleman, who assures him of success. 

Sir Will. Who, the important little man that 
visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite con- 325 
temptible among men in power, and utterly unable 
to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much bet- 
ter known to people of fashion than his person, I 
assure 3^ou. 



142 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As 330 
sure as can be, here he comes. 

Sir Will. Does he? Remember, I'm to con- 
tinue unknown. My return to England has not • 
as yet been made pubhc. With what impudence 
he enters ! 335 

Enter Lofty 

Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive 
off; I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Rich- 
land here before me ! Punctual as usual, to the calls 
of humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of 
this kind should happen, especially to a man I have 340 
shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a 
particular acquaintance. 

Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of mak- 
ing the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private 34s 
man like me do? One man can't do . every thing ; 
and then, I do so much in this way every day. 
Let me see, something considerable might be done 
for him by subscription; it could not fail if I car- 
ried the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace 35c 
of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower House, 
at my own peril. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN . 143 

&ir Will. And, after all, it's more than prob- 
able, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful 
patronage. 35 5 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You 
know I never make promises. In truth, I once or 
twice tried to do something with him in the way of 
business ; but as I often told his uncle. Sir William 
Honeywood, the man was impracticable. 360 

Sir Will. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I 
suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir ? — Yes, madam, as I 
often said, My dear Sir William, you are sensible 
I would do anything, as far as my poor interest 365 
goes, to serve your family : but what can be done ? 
there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate 
abilities. 

Miss' Rich. I have heard of Sir William Hon- 
eywood; he's abroad in employment: he confided 370 
in your judgment, I suppose. 

Lofty. Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir Will- 
iam had some reason to confide in my judgment; 
one little reason, perhaps. 

Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it ? 375 

Lofty. Why, madam, — but let it go no further, 
— it was I procured him his place. 



144 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act III 

Sir Will. Did you, sir ? 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 

Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, in- 380 
deed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure; he had some 
amusing quahties; no man was fitter to be a toast 
master to a club, or had a better head. 

Miss Rich. A better head ? 385 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as 
dull as a choice spirit; but hang it, he was grateful, 
very grateful; and gratitude hides a multitude of 
faults. 

Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His 390 
place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of 
business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill 
up a greater. 

Sir Will. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 395 
I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir? 

Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment; 
but then he wanted a something — a consequence 
of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady per- ■ 
ceives my meaning. 400 

Miss Rich. Oh, perfectly ; you courtiers can do 
anything, I see. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 145 

Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a niere 
exchange; we do greater things for one another 
every day. Why, as thus, now: let me suppose 405 
you the First Lord of the Treasury; you have an 
employment in you that I want; I have a place in 
me that you want; do me here, do you there: in- 
terest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, 
and it's over. 410 

Sir Will. A thought strikes me. {Aside.) — 
Now you mention Sir William Honey wood, madam, 
and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, 
you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy: I 
had it from a friend who knows him as well as he 415 
does me, and you may depend on my information. 

Lofty. (Aside.) The devil he is! If I had 
known that, we should not have been quite so well 
acquainted. 

Sir Will. He is certainly returned; and as this 420 
gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal 
service to us, by introducing me to him : there are 
some papers relative to your affairs that require 
despatch, and his inspection. 

Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a per- 425 
son employed in my affairs: I know you'll serve 
us. 



146 THE GOOD-NATURED MAX [Act III 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
proper to command it. 430 

Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary. 

Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call 
upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir Will. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
forever. 435 

Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. 
But damn it, that's unfortunate: my Lord Grig's 
cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, 
and Fm engaged to attend — another time ^ — 

Sir Will. A short letter to Sir William will do. 440 

Lofty. You shall have it; yet in my opinion, a 
letter is a very bad way of going to work; face 
to face, that's my way. 

Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct 445 
me in the business of office? Do you know me, 
sir ? who am I ? 

Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 
so much his as mine ; if my commands — but you ■ 
despise my power. 45° 

Lofty. Delicate creature ! your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight: to a power so 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 147 

constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquility. 
He shall have a letter; where is my secretary? 
Dubardieu! And yet, I protest I don't like this 455 
way of doing business. I think if I first spoke to • 
Sir William — but you will have it so. 

[Exit with Miss Richland. 

Sir Will. {Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! This, too, 
is one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O 
vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy 460 
efforts to exalt serve but to sink us ! Thy false 
colourings, like those employed to heighten beauty, 
only seem to mend that bloom which they con- 
tribute to destroy. I'm not displeased at this 
interview; exposing this fellow's impudence to the 465 
contempt it deserves, may be of use to my design ; at 
least, if he can reflect, it will be of use to himself. 
{Enter Jarvis.) How now, Jarvis, where's your 
master, my nephew? 

Jarv. At his wit's end, I believe: he's scarce 470 
gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head 
into another. 

Sir Will. How so? 

Jarv. The house has but just been cleared of 
the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and 475 
nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a 



148 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act 

clandestine match with the young lady that passes 
in the house for his sister. 

Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others. 

Jarv. Ay, anybody but himself. The young 48^ 
couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scot-, 
land; and he supplies them with money for the 
journey. 

Sir Will. Money ! how is he able to supply 
others who has scarce any for himself ? 485 

Jarv. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's 
true, but then, as he never said No to any request 
in his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a 
friend of his upon a merchant in the city, which I 
am to get changed ; for you must know that I am 490 
to go with them to Scotland myself. 

Sir Will. How? 

Jarv. It seems the young gentleman is obliged 
to take a different road from his mistress, as he is 
to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the 495 
way, in order to prepare a place for their reception, 
when they return ; so they have borrowed me from 
my master, as the properest person to attend the 
young lady down. * 

Sir Will. To the land of matrimony ! A pleas- 50c 
ant journey, Jarvis. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 149 

Jaw. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues 
on't. 

Sir Will. Well, it may be shorter, and less 
fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much 505 
of the young lady's family and connections, whom 
I have seen abroad. I have also discovered that 
Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thoughtless 
nephew; and will endeavour though I fear in vain, 
to establish that connection. But, come, the letter 510 
I wait for must be almost finished; I'll let you 
farther into my intentions in the next room. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT THE FOURTH 

Scene I. — Croaker's liousE 

Enter Lofty 

Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for 
running my head into such defiles, as nothing but 
a genius like my own could draw me from. I was 
formerly contented to husband out my places and 
pensions with some degree of frugality; but, curse 5 
it, of late I have given away the whole Court Reg- 



150 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

ister in less time than they could print the title- 
page; yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to 
come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand 
for nothing. Ha ! Honeywood here before me. lo 
Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? 

Enter Honeywood 

Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad 
again. I find my concurrence was not necessary 
in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in 
a train to do your business; but it is not for me to 15 
say what I intended doing. 

Honeyw. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you 
seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I my- 
self continue still a stranger to my benefactor. 20 

Lofty. How !' not know the friend that served 
you? 

Honeyw. Can't guess at the person. 

Lofty. Inquire. 

Honeyw. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he 25 
chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry . 
must be fruitless. 

Lofty, Must be fruitless ? 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 151 

Honeyw. Absolutely fruitless. 

Lofty. Sure of that ? 30 

Honeyw. Very sure. 

Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever 
know it from me. 

Honeyw. How, sir ! 

Lofty. I suppose, now, Mr. Honeywood, you 35 
think my rent-roll very considerable, and that I 
have vast sums of money to throw away; I know 
you do. The world, to be sure, says such things 
of me. 

Honeyw. The world, by what I learn, is no 40 
stranger to your generosity. But where does this 
tend? 

Lofty. To nothing; nothing in the world. The 
town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as 
me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that 45 
I never yet patronized a man of merit. 

Honeyw. I have heard instances to the con- 
trary, even from yourself. 

Lofty. Yes, Honey wood; and there are in- 
stances to the contrary, that you shall never hear 50 
from myself. 

Honeyw. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you 
but one question. 



152 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions; I say, sir, 
ask me no questions; I'll be damn'd if I answer 55 
them. 

Honeyw. I will ask no further. My friend ! my 
benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am in- * 
debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou wor- 
thiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it, 60 
but was afraid to return thanks; which, if unde- 
served, might seem reproaches. 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, 
Mr. Honeywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I 
do assure you, sir. — Blood, sir, can't a man be 65 
permitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, 
without all this parade? 

Honeyw. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an ac- 
tion that adds to your honour. Your looks, your 
air, your manner, all confess it. 7c 

Lofty. Confess it, sir ! Torture itself, sir, shall 
never bring me to .confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I 
have admitted you upon terms of friendship. 
Don't let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this 
be buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostenta- 75 
tion; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, 
you know I always loved to be a friend, and not a 
patron. I beg this may make no kind of distance 



Scene IJ THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 153 

between us. Come, come, you and I must be 
more familiar — indeed we must. 80 

Honeyw. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such 
friendship? Is there any way? Thou best of 
men, can I ever return the obhgation? 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I 
see your heart is labouring to be grateful. You 85 
shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint 
you. 

Honeyw. How! teach me the manner. Is 
there any way? 

Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, 90 
friend, you shall know it — I'm in love. 

Honeyw. And can I assist you? 

Lofty. Nobody so well. 

Honeyw. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 95 

Honeyw. And to whom shall I speak in your 
favour ? 

Lofty. To a lady with whom you have a great 
interest, I assure you. Miss Richland. 

Honeyw. Miss Richland ! 100 

Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck 
the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by 
Jupiter ! 



154 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

Honeyw. Heavens ! was ever anything more 
unfortunate ! It is too much to be endured. 105 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can 
endure it, till you have opened the affair to her 
for me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. 
I'm not apt to boast, but I think she does. 

Honeyw. Indeed ! But do you know the per- no 
son you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and 
mine: that's enough. To you, therefore, I com- 
mit the success of my passion. I'll say no more, 
let friendship do the rest. I have only to add, 115 
that if at any time my little interest can be of ser- 
vice, — but, hang it, I'll make no promises, — you 
know my interest is 3^ours at any time. No apolo- 
gies, my friend, I'll not be answered. It shall be 
so. [Exit. 120 

Honeyw. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! 
He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such 
an ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a 
vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my perse- 
cution ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a 125 
hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love that 
has been my tormentor; a friend that has, per- 
haps, distressed himself to serve me. It shall be 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 155 

SO. Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my 
bosom, and exert all my influence in his favour. 130 
And yet to see her in the possession of another ! — 
Insupportable ! But then to betray a generous, 
trusting friend ! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm re- 
solved. Let me but be the instrument of their 
happiness, and then quit a country, where I must 135 
forever despair of finding my own. [Exit. 

Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliners 

box 

Oliv. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish 
creature delays purely to vex me. 

Gar. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 140 
say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach 
you to bear it the better afterwards. 

Oliv. To be gone a full hour, though he had 
only to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro- 
voking ! 145 

Gar. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time, 
from his inn; and here you are left behind. 

Oliv. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 



156 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 150 
Garnet ? 

Gar. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I 
wish you could take the white and silver to be mar- 
ried in. It's the worst luck in the world in any- 
thing but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our 155 
town, that was married in red; and, as sure as 
eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff 
before morning. 

Oliv. No matter, I'm all impatience till we are 
out of the house. 160 

Gar. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
wedding ring ! — The sweet little thing — I don't 
think it would go on my little finger. And what 
if I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of neces- 
sity, madam? But here's Jarvis. 165 

Enter Jarvis 

Oliv. O Jarvis, are you come at last ? We have 
been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. 
Let us fly ! 

Jarv. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no go- 
ing to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 170 

Oliv. How ! what's the matter ? 



I 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 157 

Jarv. Money, money, is the matter, madam. 
We have got no money. What the plague do you 
send me of your fool's errand for? My master's 
bill upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is; 175 
Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair with it. 

Oliv. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve 
us so 1 What shall we do ? Can't we go without 
it? 

Jarv. Go to Scotland without money ! To 180 
Scotland without money ! Lord, how some people 
understand geography ! We might as well set sail 
for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 

Oliv. Such a disappointment ! What a base, 
insincere man was your master, to serve us in this 185 
manner. Is this his good-nature ? 

Jarv. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam; 
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but 
myself. 

Gar. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you 190 
need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leon- 
tine receive forty guineas from his father just be- 
fore he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. 
A short letter will reach him there. 

Oliv. Well remembered. Garnet; I'll write' im- 195 
mediately. How's this ! Bless me, my hand 



158 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

trembles so I can't write a word. Do you write, 
Garnet ; and, upon second thought, it will be 
better from you. 

Gar. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 200 
poorly. I never was 'cute at my learning. But 
I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All 
out of my own head, I suppose ? 

Oliv. Whatever you please. 

Gar. {Writing.) '^Muster Croaker" — Twenty 205 
guineas, madam ? 

Oliv. Ay, twenty will do. 

Gar. ''At the bar of the Talbot till called for. 
Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame 

— Quick despatch — Cupid, the little god of love." 210 

— I conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see 
a love letter end like poetry. 

Oliv. Well, well, what you please, anything. 
But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the 
servants of this family. 215 

Gar. Odso, madam, Mr. Honey wood's butler is 
in the next room: he's a dear, sweet man; he'll 
do anything for me. 

Jarv. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit 
some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times 220 
a-day. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 159 

Oliv. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we 
can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis, 
now we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you 
may take up the things, and carry them on to the 225 
inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ? 

Jarv. Soft and fair, young lady. You that 
are going to be married think things can never be 
done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know 
what we are about, must elope methodically, 230 
madam. 

Ollv. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be 
done over again — 

Jarv. My life for it, you would do them ten 
times over. 235 

Oliv. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how 
unhappy they make me — 

Jarv. Very unhappy, no doubt; I was once just 
as unhappy when I was going to be married my- 
self. I'll tell you a story about that — 240 

Oliv. A story ! when I am all impatience 
to be away ! Was there ever such a dilatory 
creature ! — 

Jarv. Well, madam, if we must march, why, we 
will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have 245 
still forgot one thing we should never travel with- 



160 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

out — a case of good razors, and a box of shaving 
powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be 
pretty well shaved by the way. [Going. 

• 

Enter Garnet 

Gar. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jar- 250 
vis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. 
Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped 
the letter before he went ten yards from the door. 
There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is 
this moment reading it to himself in the hall. 255 

Oliv. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 

Gar. No, madam; don't be uneasy, he can 
make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he 
looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about 
it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O 260 
lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors. 

Oliv. Then let us leave the house this instant 
for fear he should ask farther questions. In the 
mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just 
such another. [Exeunt. 265 

Enter Croaker 

Croak. Death and destruction ! Are all the 
horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 161 

at me ? Am I only to be singled out for gunpow- 
der plots, combustibles, and conflagration ? Here 
it is — an incendiary letter° dropped at my door. 270 
^'To Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay, 
plain enough the direction; all in the genuine 
incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil. 
'^With speed." Oh, confound your speed! But 
let me read it once more. (Reads.) '^Muster 275 
Croaker, as sone as yow see this, leve twenty gunnes 
at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for, or yowe and 
yower experetion will be al blown up." Ah, but 
too plain ! Blood and gunpowder in every line of 
it. Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ! 280 
Heavens ! what have I and my poor family done, 
to be all blown up? (Reads.) "Our pockets are 
low, and money we must have." Ay, there's the 
reason; they'll blow us up, because they have got 
low pockets. (Reads.) "It is but a short time 285 
you have to consider; for if this takes wind, the 
house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman 
monsters! blow us up, and then burn us! The 
earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. 
(Reads.) "Make quick despatch, and so no more 290 
at present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, 
go with you wherever you go." The little god of 

M 



162 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

love! Cupid, the little god of love, go with me! 
Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid to- 
gether; I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether 295 
I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm 
treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, 
and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to • 
blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! We 
shall be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all 300 
burnt in our beds ! 

Enter Miss Richland 

Miss Rich. Lord, sir, what's the matter? 

Croak. Murder's the matter. We shall be all 
blown up in our beds before morning. 

Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. 305 

Croak. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
when I have a certificate of it here in my hand? 
Will nothing alarm my family ? Sleeping and eat- 
ing, sleeping and eating is the only work from 
morning till night in my house. My insensible 310 
crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake, ; 
and fry beef-steaks at a volcano. " 

Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so . . 
often already; we have nothing but earthquakes, fj 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 163 

famines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end 315 
to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not 
above a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy 
among the bakers to poison us in our bread; 
and so kept the whole family a week upon 
potatoes. 320 

Croak. And potatoes were too good for them. 
But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when 
I should be facing the enemy without? Here, 
John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into 
the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles be- 325 
low; and above, in the apartments, that no 
matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the 
fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out 
in the yard, to play upon the house in case of 
necessity. [Exit. 330 

Miss Rich. {Alone.) What can he mean by all 
this? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms 
us in this manner almost every day ? But Honey- 
wood has desired an interview with me in private. 
What can he mean? or rather, what means this 335 
palpitation at his approach? It is the first time 
he ever showed anything in his conduct that 
seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to — but 
he's here. 



164 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

Enter Honeywood 

Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, 340 
madam, before I left town, to be permitted — 

Miss Rich. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir ? 

Honeyw. Yes, madam, perhaps the kingdom. I 
have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this 
interview — in order to disclose something which our 345 
long friendship prompts. And yet my fears — 

Miss Rich. His fears ! What are his fears to 
mine ! {Aside.) — We have, indeed, been long ac- 
quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first 
meeting was at the French ambassador's. — Do 350 
you recollect how you were pleased to rally me 
upon my complexion there ? 

Honeyw. Perfectly, madam; I presumed to re- 
prove you for painting; but your warmer blushes 
soon convinced the company that the colouring 355 
was all from nature. 

Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it in your 
good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment 
to myself. In the same manner, you danced that . 
night with the most awkward woman in company, 360 
because you saw nobody else would take her out. 

Honeyw. Yes; and was rewarded the next 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 165 

night by dancing with the finest woman in 
company, whom everybody wished to take 
out. 365 

Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I 
fear your judgment has since corrected the errors 
of a first impression. We generally show to most 
advantage at first. Our sex are like poor trades- 
men, that put all their best goods to be seen at the 370 
windows. 

Honeyw. The first impression, madam, did in- 
deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman 
with all the faults of conscious, flattered beauty; 
I expected to find her vain and insolent. But 375 
every day has since taught me that it is possible 
to possess sense without pride, and beauty without 
affectation. 

Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual 
with Mr. Honey wood; and I should be glad to 380 
know why he thus attempts to increase that van- 
ity, which his own lessons have taught me to de- 
spise. 

Honeyw. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 
long friendship, I presumed I might have some 385 
right to offer, without offence, what you may re- 
fuse without offending. 



166 THE GOOD-NATUHED man [Act IV 

Miss Rich. Sir! I beg you'd reflect: though I 
fear I shall scarce have any power to refuse a re- 
quest of yours ; yet, you may be precipitate : con- 390 
sider, sir. 

Honeyw. I own my rashness; but, as I plead 
the cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't 
be alarmed, madam — who loves you with the 
most ardent passion, whose whole happiness is 395 
placed in you — 

Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
you mean, by this description of him. 

Honeyw. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points 
him out; though he should be too humble himself 400 
to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to under- . 
stand them. 

Miss Rich. Well; it would be affectation any 
longer to pretend ignorance ; and, I will own, sir, I 
have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was 40 
but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he 
seemed himself ignorant of its value. 

Honeyw. I see she always loved him. (Aside.) 
— I find, madam, you're already sensible of his . 
worth, his passion. How happy is my friend to be 4101 
the favourite of one with such sense to distinguish 
merit, and such beauty to reward it ! 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 167 

Miss Rich. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? 

Honeyw. My best friend — my friend Mr. 
Lofty, madam. 

Miss Rich. He, sir ! "^'^ 

Honeyw. Yes, he, madam ! He is, indeed, what 
your warmest wishes might have formed him; and 
to his other qualities he adds that of the most pas- 
sionate regard for you. 

Miss Rich. Amazement ! — No more of this 1^° 
beg you, sir. ' 

Honeyiv. I see your confusion, madam, and 
know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly 
read the language of your heart, shall I make my 425 
friend happy, by communicating your sentiments? 

Miss Rich. By no means. 

Honeyw. Excuse me, I must; I know you de- 
sire it. 

Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 430 
that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When 
I first applied to your friendship, I expected ad- 
vice and assistance; but now, sir, I see that it is 
vam to expect happiness from him who has been 
so bad an economist of his own; and that I must 435 
disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to 
^''^'^^^' [Exit. 



168 



THE OOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

Honeyw. How is this? she has confessed she 
loved him, and yet she seemed to part m displeas- 
ure Can I have done anything to reproach my- 440 
self with? No; I believe not: yet, after all, these _ 
things should not be done by a third Person: 1 
should have spared her confusion. My friendship 
carried me a little too far. 

Enter Croaker, mY/^ the letter in his hand, and 
Mrs. Croaker 

Mrs Croak. Ha! ha! ha! And so, my dear, 445 
it's your supreme wish that I should be qmte 
wretched upon this occasion? Ha! ha! 

Croak. {Mimicking.) Ha! ha! ha! And so, 
my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no 
better consolation? "^^ 

Mrs Croak. Positively, my dear; what is this 

incendiary stuff and trumpery to me? Our house 
may travel through the air, like the house of Lo- 
retto,° for aught I care, if I'm to be miserable m it. 

Croak. Would to Heaven it were converted into 455 
a house of correction for your benefit. Have we 
not everything to alarm us? Perhaps, this very 
moment the tragedy is beginning. 






Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 169 

Mrs. Croak. Then let us reserve our distress till 
the rising of the curtain, or give them the money 460 
they want; and have done with them. 

Croak. Give them my money ! — And pray, 
what right have they to my money? 

Mrs. Croak. And pray, what right, then, have 
you to my good-humour? 465 

Croak. And so your good-humour advises me 
to part with my money ? Why, then, to tell your 
good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part 
with my wife. Here's Mr. Honey wood; see what 
he'll say to it. My dear Honey wood, look at this 470 
incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will 
freeze you with terror; and yet lovey can read it 
— can read it, and laugh ! 

Mrs. Croak. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 

Croak. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the 475 
next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. 

Mrs. Croak. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there 
anything more foolish than my husband's fright 
upon this occasion? 

Honeyw. It would not become me to decide, 480 
madam; but, doubtless, the greatness of his ter- 
rors now will but invite them to renew their vil- 
lany another time. 



170 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 



Mrs. Croak. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 
Croak. How, sir! Do you maintain that 1 485 
should lie down under such an injury, and show, 
neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have ^ 
something of the spirit of a man in me? 

Honeyw. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make 
the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 490 
surest way to have redress is to be earnest m the 
pursuit of it. 

Croak. Ay, whose opinion is he of now? 
Mrs. Croak. But don't you think that laughing 
off our fears is the best way ? 495 

Honeyw. What is the best, madam, few can 
say; but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. 

Croak. But we're talking of the best. Surely 
the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and 
not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-cham-500 

ber. 

Honeyw. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's 

a very wise way too. 

Mrs. Croak. But can anything be more absurd, 
than to double our distress by our apprehensions, 505 
and put it in the power of every low fellow, that 
can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to tor- 
ment us ? 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 171 

Honeyw. Withoujb doubt, nothing more absurd. 

Croak. How! would it not be more absurd to 510 
despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 

Honeyw. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croak. Then you are of my opinion ? 

Honeyw. Entirely. 

Mrs. Croak. And you reject mine ? 515 

Honeyw. Heavens forbid, madam! No, sure, 
no reasoning can be more just than yours. We 
ought certainly to despise malice, if we cannot 
oppose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as 
fatal to our repose as the highwayman's pistol. 520 

Mrs. Croak. Oh ! then you think I'm quite right ? 

Honeyw. Perfectly right. 

Croak. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 
right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be ^2=; 
off. 

Mrs. Croak. Certainly, in two opposite opin- 
ions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't 
be perfectly right. 

Honeyw. And why may not both be right, 530 
madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking re- 
dress, and you in waiting the event in good-hu- 
mour? Pray, let me see the letter again. I have 



172 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act IV 

it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left 
at the bar of the Talbot inn. If it be indeed an 535 
incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go there; 
and, when the writer comes to be paid his expected . 
boot}^, seize him? 

Croak. My dear friend, it's the very thing; the 
very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall 540 
plant yourself in ambush near the bar; burst out 
upon the miscreant like a masked battery; extort 
a confession at once, and so hang him up by sur- 
prise. 

Honey w. Yes ; but I would not choose to exer- 545 
cise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
crimes generally punish themselves. 

Croak. {Ironically.) Well, but we may upbraid 
him a little, I suppose ? 

Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 550 

Croak. Well, well, leave that to my own benev- 
olence. 

Honeyw. Well, I do; but remember that uni- 
versal benevolence is the first law of nature. 

[Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. 555 

Croak. Yes; and my universal benevolence 
will hang the clog, if he had as many necks as a 
hydra. 



Scene 1] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 173 

ACT THE FIFTH 

Scene I. — An Inn 
Enter Olivia and Jarvis 

Oliv. Well, we have got safe to the inn, how- 
ever. Now, if the post-chaise were ready — 

Jarv. The horses are just finishing their oats; 
and, as they are not going to be married, they 
choose to take their own time. 5 

Oliv. You are forever giving wrong motives to 
my impatience. 

Jarv. Be as impatient as you will, the horses 
must take their own time; besides, you don't con- 
sider we have got no answer from our fellow-trav- lo 
eller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, 
we have only one way left us. 

Oliv. What way ? 

Jarv. The way home again. 

Oliv. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, 15 
and nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarv. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when they 
jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten 



174 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

things without. And I'll call, too, at the bar to 
see if anything should be left for us there. Don't 20 
be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall 
go the faster, I promise you. [Exit. . 

Enter Landlady 

Land. What ! Solomon, why don't you move ? 
Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. — Will 
nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick. The 25 
Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did 
your ladyship call, madam ? 

Oliv. No, madam. 

Land. I find as you are for Scotland, madam. 
— But that's no business of mine; married, or not 3° 
married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had 
a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago 
for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, 
was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew 
froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bash- 35 
ful, it was near half an hour before we could get 
her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 

Oliv. But this gentleman and I are not going to 
be married, I assure you. 

Land. May be not. That's no business of 40 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 175 

mine for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out 
well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss 
Macfag, that married her father's footman. — 
Alack-a-day, she and her husband soon parted, 
and now keep separate cellars in Hedge-lane. 45 

_ Oliv. {Aside.) A very pretty picture of what 
lies before me. 

Enter Leontine 

Leont. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you 
were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. 
I could not help coming to see you set out, though 50 
it exposes us to a discovery. 

Oliv. May everything you do prove as fortu- 
nate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most 
cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon 
the city has, it seems, been protested, and we have 55 
been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 

Leont. How! an offer of his own too! Sure, 
he could not mean to deceive us ? 

Oliv. Depend upon his sincerity; he only mis- 
took the desire for the power of serving us. But 60 
let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise 
is ready by this. 

Land. Not quite yet; and begging your lady- 



176 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

ship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite 
ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a 65 
cold place, madam. I have a drop in the house of 
as pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. 
Justathimblefull to keep the wind off your stomach. 
To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said 
it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both 70 
away as good-natured — Up went the blinds, round 
went the wheels, and drive away, postboy was the 
word. 

Enter Croaker 

Croak. Well, while my friend Honey wood is 
upon the post of danger at the bar, it must be my 75 
business to have an eye about me here. I think I 
know an incendiary's look, for wherever the devil 
makes a purchase, he never fails to set his mark. 
Ha ! who have we here ? My son and daughter ! 
What can they be doing here ? 80 

Land. I tell you, madam, it will do you good; 
I think I know by this time what's good for the 
north road. It's a raw night, madam. — Sir — 

Leant. Not a drop more, good madam. Lshould f 
now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the 85' 
horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 111 

Land. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! 
are you all dead there ! Wha, Solomon, I say ! 

[Exit, bawling. 

Oliv. Well; I dread lest an expedition begun 
in fear, should end in repentance. — Every mo- 90 
ment we stay increases our danger, and adds to 
my apprehensions. 

Leont. There's no danger, trust me, my dear; 
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with 
honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in 95 
employment till we are out of danger, nothing 
can interrupt our journey. 

Oliv. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's 
sincerity, and even his desire to serve us. 
My fears are from your father's suspicions. 100 
A mind so disposed to be alarmed without a 
cause, will be but too ready when there's a 
reason. 

Leont. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
power. But, believe me, Olivia, you have no great 105 
reason to dread his resentment. His repining 
temper, as it does no manner of injury to himself, 
so will it never do harm to others. He only frets 
to keep himself employed, and scolds for his pri- 
vate amusement. no 



178 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

Oliv. I don't know that ; but I'm sure, 
on some occasions, it makes him look most 
shockingly. 

Croak. {Discovering himself.) How does he . 
look now? — How does he look now? 115 

Oliv. Ah ! 

Leont. Undone ! 

Croak. How do I look now? Sir, I am your 
very humble servant. Madam, I am yours ! What, 
you are going off, are you? Then, first, if you 120 
please, take a word or two from me with you be- 
fore you go. Tell me first where you are going; 
and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall 
know as little as I did before. 

Leont. If that be so, our answer might but in- 125 
crease your displeasure, without adding to your 
information. 

Croak. I want no information from you, puppy; 
and you, too, good madam, what answer have you 
got? Eh! {A cry without, "Stop him.-') I think 130 
I heard a noise. My friend, Honeywood, without 
— has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now . 
I hear no more on't. 

Leont. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was I 
Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither ? 135 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 179 

Croak. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood con- 
ducted me hither. 

Leont. Is it possible ? 
_ Croak. Possible ! Why, he's in the house now, 
sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 140 

Leont. Then, sir, he's a villain. 

Croak. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father ? I'll not bear it. I tell 
you I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the 
family, and I'll have him treated as such. 145 

Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as 
it deserves. 

Croak. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means 
to detect them, you would love him as I do. {A 150 
cry without, "Stop him.'') Fire and fury! they 
have seized the incendiary : they have the villain, 
the incendiary, in view. Stop him ! stop an in- 
cendiary ! a murderer! stop him! [Exit. 

Oliv. Oh, my terrors ! What can this new tu- 155 
mult mean ? 

Leont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Hon- 
eywood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfac- 
tion: he shall give me instant satisfaction. 

Oliv. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 160 



180 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

my esteem, or my happiness. Whatever be our 
fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes — : 
Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that 
we have left us. You must forgive him. 

Leont. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 1*65 
stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money 
from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us; 
promised to keep my father engaged till we were 
out of danger, and here brought him to the very 
scene of our escape ? 170 

Oliv. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be 
mistaken. 

Enter Postboy, dragging in Jar vis; Honeywood 
entering soon after 



Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the 
reward; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the 17 
money at the bar, and then run for it. 

Honeyw. Come, bring him along. Let us see 
him ! Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Dis- 
covering his mistake.) Death ! what 's here ? Jar- 
vis, Leontine, Olivia ! What can ail this mean ? i8< 

Jarv. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I 



t 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 181 

was an old fool, and that you are my master — 
that's all. 

Honeyw. Confusion ! 

Leont. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your 185 
word with me. After such baseness, I wonder 
how you can venture to see the man you have 
injured ? 

Honeyw. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 

honour — 

190 

Leont. Peace, peace, for shame; and do not 
contmue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I 
know you, sir, I know you. 

Honeyw. Why, won't you hear me? By all 
that's just, I knew not — 

Leont. Hear you, sir! to what purpose? I 
now see through all your low arts; your ever com- 
plying with every opinion; your never refusing 
any request; your friendship as common as a pros- 
titute's favours, and as fallacious; all these, sir, 200 
have long been contemptible to the world, and are 
now perfectly so to me. 

Honeyw. Ha! contemptible to the world ' that 
reaches me. ^^^-^^^ 

Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your pro- 205 
fessions, I now find were only allurements to 



182 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

betray; and all your seeming regret for their 
consequence, only calculated to cover the cowardice, 
of your heart. Draw villain ! 

Enter Croaker, out of breath 

Croak. Where is the villain? Where is the in- 210 
cendiary? {Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, 
the dog; he has the gallows in his face. Come, 
you dog, confess; confess all, and hang yourself. 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle 
me for ? 215 

Croak. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do 
you resist ? 

Postboy. Zounds! master, I'm not he; there's 
the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns 
out to be one of the company. 220 

Croak. How ! 

Honeyw. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a 
strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; 
it was all an error; entirely an error of our own. 

Croak. And I say, sir, that you're in error; for 225 j 
there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned 
Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof 
of it. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 183 

Honeyio. Do but hear me. 

Croak. What, you intend to bring 'em off, 1 230 
suppose ? I'll hear nothing. 

Honeyw. Madam, you seem at least calm 
enough to hear reason. 

Oliv. Excuse me. 

Honeyw. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it 235 
to you. 

Jarv. What signifies explanations when the 
thing is done? 

Honeyio. Will nobody hear me? Was there 
ever such a set, so blinded by passion and 240 
prejudice? {To the Postboy.) My good' friend, 
I believe you'll be surprised when I assure 
you — 

Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of noth- 
ing but a good beating. 245 

Croak. Come then, you, madam, if you ever 
hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincerely 
all you know of this affair. 

Oliv. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause 
of your suspicions : you see before you, sir, one that 250 
with false pretences has stept into your family to 
betray it ; not your daughter — 

Croak. Not my daughter ! 



184 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

Oliv. Not your daughter — but a mean de- 
ceiver — who — support me, I cannot — .255 

Honeyw. Help, she's going : give her air. 

Croak. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
air; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose 
ever daughter she may be — not so bad as that 
neither. [Exit all but Croaker. 260 

Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the whole affair: 
my son is either married, or going to be so, to this 
lady, whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay 
certainly so; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so 
much as one might think. There's the advantage 265 
of fretting away our misfortunes beforehand, we 
never feel them when they come. 

Enter Miss Richland and Sir William 

Sir Will. But how do you know, madam, that 
my nephew intends setting off from this place ? 

Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come 270 
to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intend- 
ing to leave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But 
what do I see ? my guardian here before us ! Who, 
my dear sir, could have expected meeting you here ? 
To what accident do we owe this pleasure ? 273 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 185 

Croak. To a fool, I believe. 

Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come ? 

Croak. To play the fool. 

Miss Rich. But with whom ? 

Croak. With greater fools than myself. 280 

Miss Rich. Explain. 

Croak. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here 
to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going 
to be married to I don't know who, that is here: 
so now you are as wise as I am. 285 

Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir ? 

Croak. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her 
to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter 
she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you; and, 290 
though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend 
to your family. It will be enough, at present, to 
assure you, that both in point of birth and fortune, 
the young lady is at least your son's equal. Being 
left by her father. Sir Jarnes Woodville — 295 

Croak. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the 
West? 

Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care 
of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to se- 
cure her fortune to himself, she was sent to France, 300 



186 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

under pretence of education; and there every art 
was tried to fix her for Hfe in a convent, contrary . 
to her inchnations. Of this I was informed upon 
my arrival at Paris; and, as I had been once her 
father's friend, I did all in my power to frustrate 305 
her guardian's base intentions. I had even medi- 
tated to rescue her from his authority, when your 
son stept in with more pleasing violence, gave her 
liberty, and you a daughter. 

Croak. But I intend to have a daughter of my 310 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose for- 
tune, by my interest with those that have interest, 
will be double what my son has a right to expect. 
Do you know Mr. Lofty, sir ? 

Sir Will. Yes, sir: and know that you are de-315 
ceived in him. But step this way, and I'll con- 
vince you. 

[Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Enter Honeywood 

Honeyw. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now 
begin to grow contemptible even to myself. How 320 
have I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATUREB MAN 187 

How have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the ap- 
probation of a single fool should escape me ! But all 
is now over: I have survived my reputation, my 
fortune, my friendships, and nothing remains 325 
henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. 

Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you 
are setting off, without taking leave of your friends ? 
The report is, that you are quitting England. Can 
it be ? 330 

Honeyw. Yes, madam; and though. I am so un- 
happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, 
yet, thank Heaven, I leave you to happiness; to 
one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one 
who has power to procure you affluence, and gen- 335 
erosity to improve your enjoyment of it. 

Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
tleman you mean is what you describe him ? 

Honeyw. I have the best assurances of it — his 
serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest 340 
happiness, and that is in your power to confer. 
As for me, weak and wavering as I have been, 
obliged by all, and incapable of serving any, what 
happiness can I find but in solitude ? What hope, 
but in being forgotten ? 345 

Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends 



188 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be 
permitted to oblige you. 

Honeyw. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. 
Inferiority among strangers is easy; but among 350 
those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, 
to show you how far my resolution can go, I can 
now speak with calmness of my former follies, my 
vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even 
confess, that, among the number of my other pre- 355 
sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving 
you. Yes, madam, while I was pleading the pas- 
sion of another, my heart was tortured with its 
own. But it is over; it was unworthy our friend- 
ship, and let it be forgotten. 360 

Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 

Honeyw. But you'll forgive it, I know you will; 
since the confession should not have come from me 
even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my 
intention of — never mentioning it more. [Going. 365 

Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he 
here — 

Enter Lofty 

Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends. 
I have followed you here with a trifling piece of in- 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 189 

telligence; but it goes no farther; things are not 370 
yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working 
at a certain board; your affair at the Treasury 
will be done in less than — a thousand years. 
Mum! 

Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 375 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls 
into proper hands, that know where to push and 
where to parry ; that know how the land lies — 
eh, Honeywood? 

Miss Rich. It has fallen into yours. 380 

Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
your thing is done. It is done, I say, that's all. I 
have just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that 
the claim has been examined, and found admissi- 
ble. Quietus is the word, madam. 385 

Honeyw. But how? his lordship has been at 
Newmarket these ten days. 

Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must 
have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of 
him. 390 

Miss Rich. He ! why. Sir Gilbert and his family 
have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — 
Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, 



190 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act V 

SO that he must have met his lordship there; and 395 
so it came about. I have his letter about me; I'll 
read it to you. {Taking out a large bundle.) That's 
from Paoli° of Corsica, that from the Marquis of 
Squilachi.° — Have you a mind to see a letter from 
Count Poniatowski,° now King of Poland ? — Hon- 400 
est Pon — {Searching.) Oh, sir, what, are you here 
too ? I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have 
not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William 
Honey wood, you may return it. The thing will 
do without him. 405 

Sir Will. Sir, I have delivered it; and must 
inform you, it was received with the most morti- 
fying contempt. 

Croak. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
mean ? 410 

Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. 
You'll find it come to something presently. 

Sir Will. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be amazed, 
if, after waiting some time in the ante-chamber, 
after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the 415 
passing servants, I was at last assured, that Sir 
William Honeywood knew no such person, and I 
must certainly have been imposed upon. 

Lofty. Good ! let me die; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 191 

Croak. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 420 
the goodness of it. 

Lofty. You can't? Ha! ha! 

Croak. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as 
confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from 
one private gentleman to another. 425 

Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of 
the message? Why, I was in the house at that 
very time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very 
answer to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 

Croak. Indeed ! How ? why ? 430 

Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has 
many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side 
with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mys- 
tery. 435 

Croak. And so it does, indeed; and all my sus- 
picions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions ! What, then you have 
been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have 
you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we are 440 
friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; 
I say, it's over. 

Croak. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean 
to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 



192 THE GOOD-NATURED MAI^^^\Kct^N 



Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and 445 
will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who 
am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both 
by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the. 
Gazetteer ° and praised in the St. James's° ; have 
I been chaired at Wildman's,° and a speaker at 450 
Merchant Tailors' Hall; have I had my hand to 
addresses, and my head in the print-shops; and 
talk to me of suspects? 

Croak. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you 
have but asking pardon ? 455 

Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects ! 
Who am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court 
to men in favour to serve my friends, the Lords of 
the Treasury, Sir William Honey wood, and the 
rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects ! Who 460 
am I, I say, who am I ? 

Sir Will. Since you are so pressing for an an- 
swer, I'll tell you who you are. A gentleman 
as well acquainted with politics as with men in 
power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion 465 
as with modesty; with Lords of the Treasury as. 
with truth ; and with all as you are with Sir William 
Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood. | 

(Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.) I 



)0 

I 



1 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 193 

Croak. Sir William Honeywood ! 

Honeyw. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) 470 

Lofty. So, then, my confounded genius has been 
all this time only leading me up to the garret, in 
order to fling me out of the window. 

Croak. What, Mr. Importance, and are these 
your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been 475 
dreaded by the ins and outs; you who have had 
your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in 
print-shops ? If you were served right, you should 
have your head stuck up in the pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the 480 
Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks 
at present. 

Sir Will. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, 
and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his 485 
influence. 

Croak. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't 
but say I have had some boding of it these ten 
days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed 
his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to 490 
be satisfied with his choice, and not run the 
hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to 
a better. 



194 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN [Act Y 

Sir Will. I approve your resolution; and here 
they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon 495 
and consent. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and 
Olivia 

Mrs. Croak. Where's my husband? Come, 
come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here 
has been to tell me the whole affair; and I sa}^, you 
must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, 500 
you know, my dear; and we never had any reason 
to repent of it. 

Croak. I wish we could both say so. However, 
this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been 
beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. 505 
So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I 
think we can tack them together without crossing 
the Tweed for it. [Joining their hands. 

Leont. How blest and unexpected ! What, 
what can we say to such goodness? But oursij 
future obedience shall be the best reply. And, as 
for this gentleman, to whom we owe — 

Sir Will. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 195 

{Turning to Honey wood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised 515 
to see me; and I own that a desire of correcting 
your follies led me hither. I saw with indignation 
the errors of a mind that only sought applause 
from others; that easiness of disposition which, 
though inclined to the right, had not the courage 520 
to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those 
splendid errors, that still took name from some 
neighbouring duty; your charity, that was but 
injustice; your benevolence, that was but weak- 
ness; and your friendship but credulity. I saw 525 
with regret great talents and extensive learning 
only employed to add sprightliness to error and 
increase your perplexities. I saw your mind with 
a thousand natural charms; but the greatness of 
its beauty served only to heighten my pity for its 530 
prostitution. 

Honeyw. Cease to upbraid me, sir; I have for 
some time but too strongly felt the justice of your 
reproaches. But there is one way still left me. 
Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to quit 535 
forever a place where I have made myself the vol- 
untary slave of all, and to seek among strangers 
that fortitude which may give strength to the mind, 
and marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere 



196 THE GOOB-NATURED MAN [Act V 

I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentle- 540 
man who, notwithstanding what has happened, has 
laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr. 
Lofty — 

Lofty. Mr. Honey wood, I'm resolved upon a 
reformation as well as you. I now begin to find 545 
that the man who first invented the art of speak- 
ting truth, was a much cunninger fellow than I 
thought him. And to prove that I design to speak 
truth for the future, I must now assure you, that 
you owe your late enlargement to another; as, 550 
upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So 
now, if any of the company has a mind for prefer- 
ment, he may take my place; I'm determined to 
resign. {Exit. 

Honeyw. How have I been deceived ! 555 

Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
kinder, fairer friend, for that favour. To Miss 
Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make 
the man she has honoured by her friendship happy 
in her love, I should then forget all, and be as blest 560 
as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. . 

Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but 
affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will 
own an attachment, which I find was more than 



Scene I] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 197 

friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his 565 
resolution to quit the country, I will even try if my 
hand has not power to detain him. 

[Giving her hand. 

Honeyw. Heavens ! how can I have deserved 
all this? How express my happiness, my grati- 
tude? A moment like this overpays an age of 570 
apprehension. 

Croak. Well, now I see content in every face; 
but Heaven send we be all better this day three 
months ! 

Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 575 
yourself. He who seeks only for applause from 
without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 

Honeyw. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive 
my errors; my vanity, in attempting to please all 
by fearing to offend any; my meanness, in approv- 580 
ing folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, 
therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity 
for real distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and 
my love for her who first taught me what it is to 
be happy. 585 



EPILOGUE * 



SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY'' 



As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure; 
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend 
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, 
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. 
An Epilogue, things can't go on without it. 
It could not fail, would you but set about it. i< 

Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 
Alas ! young man, my writing days are over ; 
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; 
Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try. 
What, I, dear sir ? the Doctor interposes, ij 

* The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at 
Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What 
is here offered owes all its success to the graceful manner of the 
actress who spoke it. 

198 



EPILOGUE 199 

What, plant m- thistle, sir, among his roses ! 

No, no, IVe o^^r contests to maintain; 

To-night I hfd'd our troops at Warwick-Lane.° 

Go, ask you manager.° — Who, me ? Your pardon ; 

Those thirds are not our forte at Covent-Garden. 20 

Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, 

Give hill good words indeed, but no assistance. 

As son^ unhappy wight, at some new play, 

At thf Pit door stands elbowing a way, 

Whife oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25 

He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug; 

HiS simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 

Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace; 

But not a soul will budge to give him place. 30 

Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 

To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 

Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 

And be each critic the Good-Natured Man. 



DEDICATION 

TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, L.L.D. 

Dear Sir, 

By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do 
not mean so much to compHment you as myself. It 
may do me some honour to inform the public, that 
I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It 
may serve the interests of mankind also to inform 
them that the greatest wit may be found in a character, 
without impairing the most unaffected piety. 

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your 
partiality to this performance. The undertaking a 
comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; 
and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various 
stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured 
to trust it to the public ; and, though it was neces- 
sarily delayed till late in the season, I have every 
reason to be grateful. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most sincere friend and admirer, 
Oliver Goldsmith. 

201 



202 



DRAMATIS PERSONyE 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 
Men 



Sir Charles Marlow 
'Young Marlow (his son) 
Hardcastle . 
^ /^Hastings 

Tony Lumpkin . 
Diggory 



Mr. Gardner . 
Mr. Lewes 
Mr. Shuter 
Mr. Dubellamy 
Mr. Quick 
Mr. Saunders 



\ Mrs. Hardcastle 
\^Miss Hardcastle 
\Miss Neville 
Maid . 



Women 



Mrs. Green 
Mrs. Bulkley 
Mrs. Kniveton 
Miss Willems 



Landlord, Servants, etc. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEE; 

ORj 

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT 
PROLOGUE 

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 

Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and hold- 
ing a handkerchief to his eyes 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak — 
I'm crying now — and have been all the week. 
"'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters; 
" I've that within," for which there are no plasters ! 
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying? 
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop: 
I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread — 
I'd rather, but that's nothing — lose my head. i^ 

When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 

203 



204 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Prologue 

Shuter° and I shall be chief mourners here. 

To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 

Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed ! 

Poor Ned° and I are dead to all intents; 15 

We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments ! 

Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. 

We now and then take down a hearty cup. 

What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, 

They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. 20 

But why can't I be moral ? — Let me try — 

My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 

With a sententious look, that nothing means 

(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes). 

Thus I begin: ''All is not gold that glitters, 25 

Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 

When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 

Learning is better far than house and land. 

Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble. 

And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble." 30 

I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. 
One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill, 
A Doctor comes this night to show his skill; 
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, 35 
He, in Five Draughts prepar'd, presents a potion; 



\ 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 205 

A kind of magic charm — for, be assur'd, 

If you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd : 

But desperate the Doctor, and her case is. 

If you reject the dose, and make wry faces ! 4° 

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives. 

No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. 

Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree; 

If not, within he will receive no fee ! 

The College you, must his pretensions back, 45 

Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. 



ACT THE FIRST 
Scene I. — A Chamber in an Old-fashioned House 
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle 

Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very 
particular. Is there a creature in the whole coun- 
try but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town 
now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's 
the tw^o Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, 
go to take a month's polishing every winter. 

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta- 
tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why 



206 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

London cannot keep its own fools at home. In my. 
time, the folhes of the town crept slowly among us, lo 
but now they travel faster than a stage coach. Its 
fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, 
but in the very basket. 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times in- 
deed; you have been telling us of them for many 15 
a long year. Here we hve in an old rmnbling man- 
sion, that looks for all the world hke an inn, but 
that we never see company. Our best visitors are 
old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Crip- 
plegate, the lame dancing master; and all our en- 20 
tertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene° and 
the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fash- 
ioned trumpery. 

Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's 
old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, 25 
old wine; and, I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), 
you'll own, I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 

Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You 
may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan,° I promise 30 
you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more 
than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and 
make money of that. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 207 

Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty — 
makes just fifty and seven. 35 

Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was 
but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, 
that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and 
he's not come to years of discretion yet. 

Hard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 40 
Ay, you have taught him finely. 

Mrs. Hard. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has 
a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learn- 
ing. I don't think a boy wants much learning to 
spend fifteen hundred a year. 45 

Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere cpmposition 
of tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear; nothing but 
humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow 
the boy a little humour. 50 

Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, 
and worrying the kittens, be humour, he has it. It 
was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back 
of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I 55 
popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 

Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame? The poor 
boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school 



208 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

would be his death. When he comes to be a Httle . 
stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin 60 
may do for him ? 

Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, 
no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools 
he'll ever go to. 

Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor 65 
boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long 
among us. Anybody that looks in his face may 
see he's consumptive. 

Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symp- 
toms. 70 

Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 

Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 

Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 

Hard. And truly, so am I; for he sometimes 
whoops like a speaking trumpet — {Tony halloo- 75 
ing behind the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a 
very consumptive figure, truly ! 

Enter Tony, crossing the stage 

Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my 
charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of 
your company, lovee? So 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 209 

Tony. I'm in haste, mother; I cannot stay. 

Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw 
evening, my dear; you look most shockingly. 

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pig- 
eons expects me down every moment. There's 85 
some fun going forward. 

Hard. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I 
thought so. 

Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. 

Tony. Not so low, neither. There's Dick Mug- 90 
gins, the exciseman; Jack Slang, the horse-doctor; 
little Aminadab, that grinds the music-box; and 
Tom Twist, that spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for 
one night, at least. 95 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not 
so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint 
myself. 

Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him.) You shan't go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 100 

Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. 

[Exit, hauling her out. 

Hard. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that 
only spoil each other. But is not the whole age 



T 11 



210 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act 

in combination to drive sense and discretion out 105 
of doors ? There's my pretty darling, Kate ! the 
fashions of the times have almost infected her too. 
By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of 
gauze and French frippery as the best of them. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle 

Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! drest no 
out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! What a 
quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about 
thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this 
age, that the indigent world could be clothed out 
of the trimmings of the vain. 115 

Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. 
You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, 
and to dress in my own manner; and in the even- 
ing, I put on my housewife's dress, to please 
you. 120 

Hard. Well, remember, I insist on the terms 
of our agreement; and, by the bye, I believe I 
shall have occasion to try your obedience this very 
evening. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend 125 
your meaning. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 211 

Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I ex- 
pect the young gentleman I have chosen to be your 
husband from town this very day. I have his 
father's letter, in which he informs me his son is 130 
set out, and that he intends to follow himself 
shortly after. 

Miss Hard. Indeed ! I wish I had known some- 
thing of this before; Bless me, how shall I behave ? 
It's a thousand to one I shan't like him; our meet- 135 
ing will be so formal, and so like a thing of business, 
that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. 

Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never con- 
trol your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have 
pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir 140 
Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk 
so often. The young gentleman has been bred a 
scholar, and is designed for an employment in the 
service of his country. I am told he's a man of an 
excellent understanding. , - 

Miss Hard. Is he ? 
Hard. Very generous. 
Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
Hard. Young and brave. 

Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 150 

Hard. And very handsome. 



212 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more (kiss- 
ing his hand), he's mine — I'll have him. 

Hard. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the 
most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 155 
world. * 

Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
again. That word reserved has undone all the rest 
of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is 
said, always makes a suspicious husband. 160 

Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides 
in a breast that is not enriched with nobler virtues. 
It was the very feature in his character that first 
struck me. 

Miss Hard. He must have more striking fea-165 
tures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he 
be so young, so handsome, and so everything, as 
you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll 
have him. 

Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 170 
It's more than an even wager he may not have 
you. 

Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mor- 
tify one so ? — Well, if he refuses, instead of break- 
ing my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 175 
glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER '213 

fashion, and look out for some less difficult 
admirer. 

Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, 
I'll go prepare the servants for his reception: asiSo 
we seldom see company, they want as much train- 
ing as a company of recruits the first day's muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss Hard. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome; these 
he put last; but I put them foremost. Sensible, 185 
good-natured ; I like all that. But then, reserved 
and sheepish; that's much against him. Yet, 
can't he be cured of his timidity by being taught 
to be proud of his wife ? Yes, and can't I — But 
I vow I'm disposing of the husband before I have 190 
secured the lover. 

Enter Miss Neville 

Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my 
dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this even- 
ing? Is there anything whimsical about me? Is 
it one of my well-looking days, child? Am I in 195 
face to-day ? 

Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look 



214 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

again — bless me ! — surely no accident has hap- 
pened among the canary birds or the gold fishes? 
Has your brother or the cat been meddling? Or 200 
has the last novel been too moving ? 

Miss Hard. No; nothing of all this. I have * 
been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
been threatened with a lover. 

Miss Nev. And his name — 205 

Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 

Miss Nev. Indeed ! 

Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 

Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend 
of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never 210 
asunder. I believe you must have seen him when 
we lived in town. 

Miss Hard. Never. 

Miss Nev. He's a very singular character, I 
assure you. Among women of reputation and 215 
virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his 
acquaintance give him a very different character 
among creatures of another stamp : you understand 
me. 

Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed. I shall 220 
never be able to manage him. What shall I do? 
Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occur- 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 215 

rences for success. But how goes on your own 
affair, my dear? Has my mother been courting 
you for my brother Tony, as usual? 225 

Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our 
agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hun- 
dred tender things, and setting off her pretty mon- 
ster as the very pink of perfection. 

Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she 230 
actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no 
small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole 
management of it, I'm not surprised to see her un- 
willing to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 235 
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. 
But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but con- 
stant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at 
last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love 
with her son ; and she never once dreams that my 240 
affections are fixed upon another. 

Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
I could almost love him for hating you so. 

Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at 
bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me mar- 245 
ried to anybody but himself. But my aunt's bell 
rings for our afternoon's walk round the improve- 



216 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

ments. AllonsI Coui'age is necessary, as our 
affairs are critical. 

Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time, and alias© 
were well. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — An Alehouse Room 

Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco. Tony 
at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, 
a mallet in his hand. 

Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 

First Fell. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
The 'Squire is going to knock himself down for a 
song. 

Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 

Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a 
song° I made upon this alehouse. The Three 
Pigeons. 

SONG 

Let sclioolmasters puzzle their brain 
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning ; 

Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 
Gives genus a better discerning. 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 217 

Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 

Their Quis^ and their Quaes, and their Quods^ 15 

They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

When methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
I'll wager the rascals a crown, 20 

They always preach best with a skinful. 
But when you come down with your pence, 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I'll leave it to all men of sense. 

But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. 25 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Then come, put the jorum about, 

And let us be merry and clever. 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout. 

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 30 

Let some cry up woodcock or hare. 

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 
But of all the birds in the air, 

Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 35 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fell. The 'Squire has got some spunk in him. 



218 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

Second Fell. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
he never gives us nothing that's low. 

Third Fell. ! damn anything that's low, I 40 
cannot bear it. 

Fourth Fell. The genteel thing is the genteel 
thing any time: if so be that a gentleman bees in 
a concatenation accordingly. 

Third Fell. I like the maxum of it, Master 45 
Muggins. What, though I am obligated to dance 
a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. 
May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but 
to the very genteelest of tunes; "Water Parted, "° 
or "The minuet in Ariadne. "° 50 

Second Fell. What a pity it is the 'Squire is not 
come to his own. It would be well for all the pub- 
licans within ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would. Master Slang. I'd 
then show what it was to keep choice of company. 55 

Second Fell. O, he takes after his own father 
for that. To be sure, old 'Squire Lumpkin was 
the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For 
winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for 
a hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It 60 
was a saying in the place, that he kept the best 
horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county. 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 219 

Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age I'll be no bas- 
tard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet 
Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin with. 65 
But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for 
you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the 
matter ? 

Enter Landlord 

Land. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
at the door. They have lost their way upo' the 70 
forest; and they are talking something about Mr. 
Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be 
the gentleman that's coming down to court my 
sister. Do they seem to be Londoners ? 75 

Land. I believe they may. They took woun- 
dily like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and 
I'll set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Land- 
lord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough 80 
company for you, step down for a moment, and 
I'll be with you in the squeezing of a lemon. 

[Exeunt mob. 

Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling 
me whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I 



220 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grum- 85 
bletonian. But then I'm afraid, — afraid of what ? 
I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, and 
let him frighten me out of that if he can. 

Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings 

Marl. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have 
we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles 90 
across the country, and we have come above three- 
score ! 

Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccount- 
able reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire 
more frequently on the way. 95 

Marl. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay my- 
self under an obligation to every one I meet; and 
often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 

Hast. At present, however, we are not likely 
to receive any answer. 100 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told 
you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in 
these parts. Do you know what part of the coun- 
try you are in ? 

Hast. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 105 
you for information. 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 221 

Tony. Nor the way you came ? 

Hast. No, sir; but if you can inform us — 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither 
the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the no 
road you came, the first thing I have to inform you 
is, that — you have lost your way. 

Marl. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to 
ask the place from whence you came? 115 

Marl. That's not necessary towards directing 
us where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence; but question for question is 
all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this 
same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, 120 
whimsical fellow, with, an ugly face: a daughter, 
and a pretty son? 

Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but 
he has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing,° trollop- 125 
ing, talkative maypole; the son, a pretty, well- 
bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of ! 

Marl. Our information differs in this. The 
daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the 
son, an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at 130 
his mother's apron-string. 



222 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

Tony. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I 
have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hard- 
castle's house this night, I believe. 

Hast. Unfortunate ! i^ 

Tony. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- 
gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way 
to Mr. Hardcastle's; — (winking upon the Land- 
lord), Mr. Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh, you 
understand me ? 14° 

Land. Master Hardcastle's ! Lack-a-daisy, my 
masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong. When 
you came to the bottom of the hill, you should 
have crossed down Squash Lane. 

Marl. Cross down Squash Lane ! 145 

Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
till you came to four roads. 

Marl. Come to where four roads meet ? 

Tony. Ay; but you must be sure to take only 
one of them. 150 

Marl. O, sir, you're facetious. 

Tony. Then, keeping to the right, you are to 
go sideways till you come upon Crack-skull Com- " 
mon; there you must look sharp for the track of 
the wheel, and go forward till you come to Farmer 155 
Murrain's barn. Coming to the farmer's barn, 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 223 

you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, 
and then to the right about again, till you find out 
the old mill — 

Marl. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out i6o 
the longitude. 

Hast. What's to be done, Marlow ? 

Marl. This house promises but a poor recep- 
tion; though, perhaps, the landlord can accommo- 
date us. 165 

Land. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up 
by three lodgers already. (After a pause in which 
the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it. Don't 170 
you think. Stingo, our landlady could accommo- 
date the gentlemen by the fire-side, with — three 
chairs and a bolster ? 

Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 

Marl. And I detest your three chairs and a 175 
bolster. 

Tony. You do, do you ? — then, let me 
see — what if you go on a mile further, to 
the Buck's Head; the old Buck's Head on 
the hill, one of the best inns in the whole 180 
country ? 



224 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act I 

Hast. O ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
for this night, however. 

Land. {Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't sending 
them to your father's as an inn,° be you? 1^5 

Tony. Mum, you fool, you. Let them find that 
out. (To them.) You have only to keep on 
straight forward, till you come to a large old house 
by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns 
over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the 190 
yard, and call stoutly about you. 

Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The ser- 
vants can't miss the way? 

Tony. No, no; but I tell you though the land- 
lord is rich, and going to leave off business; so he 195 
wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your 
presence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you 
his company; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll 
persuade you that his mother was an alderman, 
and his aunt a justice of peace. 200 

Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but 
a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole j 
country. 

Marl. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
shall want no further connexion. We are to turn 205 
to the right, did you say ? 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 225 

Tony. No, no, straight forward. I'll just step 
myself, and show you a piece of the way. {To the 
Landlord.) Mum ! 

Land. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleas- 210 
ant, mischievous son. [Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND 
Scene I. — An Old-fashioned House 

Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awk- 
ward Servants 

Hard. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table 
exercise I have been teaching you these three days. 
You all know your posts and your places, and can 
show that you have been used to good company, 
without ever stirring from home. 5 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hard. When company comes, you are not to 
pop out and stare, and then run in again, like 
frighted rabbits in a warren.° 

Omnes. No, no. 10 

Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
the barn, are to make a show at the side table ; and 

Q 



226 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the 
plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. 
But you're not to stand so, with your hands in 15 
your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, ' 
Roger; and from your head, you blockhead, you. 
See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little 
too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 

Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 20 
hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for 
the militia. And so being upon drill — 

Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
You must be all attention to the guests. You 
must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you 25 
must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you 
must see us eat, and not think of eating. 

Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's per- 
fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a 30 
mouthful himself. 

Hard. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the 
kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour ? Stay 
your stomach with that reflection. 

Dig. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a 35 
shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef 
in the pantry. 






Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 227 

Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, 
if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story 
at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as 40 
if you made part of the company. 

Dig. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
the story of the Ould Grouse in the gun-room: I 
can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for 
the soul of me ! We have laughed at that these 45 
twenty years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — 
but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one 
of the company should call for a glass of wine, 50 
how will you behave? A glass of wine, sir, if 
you please, {To Diggory) — Eh, why don't you 
move? 

Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have cour- 
age till I see the eatables and drinkables 55 
brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld 
as a lion. 

Hard. What, will nobody move ? 

First Serv. I'm not to leave this pleace. 

Second Serv. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. 60 

Third Serv. Nor mine, fpr sartain. 

Dig. WaunS; and I'm sure it canna be mine. 



228 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

Hard. You numskulls ! and so, while, like your 
betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests 
must be starved. you dunces ! I find I must 65 
begin all over again — But don't I hear a coach 
drive into the yard? To your posts, you block- 
heads ! I'll go in the meantime and give my old 
friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. 

[Exit Hardcastle. 

Dig. By the elevens, my pleace is quite gone 70 
out of my head. 

Roger. I know that my pleace is to be every 
where. 

First Serv. Where the devil is mine ? 

Second Serv. My pleace is to be no where at all; 75 
and so Ize go about my business. 

[Exeunt Servants, running about as if fright- 
ened, several ways. 

Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow 
and Hastings 

Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! 
This way. 

Hast. After the disappointments of the day, 
welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a 80 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 229 

clean room and a good fire. Upon my word, a very 
well-looking house; antique but creditable. 

Marl. The usual fate of a large mansion. Hav- 
ing first ruined the master by good house-keeping, 
it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. 85 

Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good 
side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not 
actually put in the bill, infiame a reckoning con- 
foundedly. 90 

Marl. Travellers, George, must pay in all 
places; the only difference is, that in good inns 
you pay dearly for luxuries ; in bad inns you are 
fleeced and starved. 

Hast. You have lived pretty much among 95 
them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that 
you who have seen so much of the world, with your 
natural good sense, and your many opportunities, 
could never yet acquire a requisite share of assur- 
ance. 100 

Marl. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 
George, where could I have learned that assurance 
you talk of? My life has been chiefly spent in a 
college, or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely 
part of the creation that chiefly teach men confi-105 



230 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

dence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly 
acquainted with a single modest woman — except, 
my mother — ■ But among females of another class, 
you know — 

Hast. Ay, among them you are impudent no 
enough, of all conscience ! 

Marl. They are of us, you know. 

Hast. But in the company of women of reputa- 
tion I never saw such an idiot, such a trembler; 
you look for all the world as if you wanted an op- ri5 
portunity of stealing out of the room. 

Marl. Why, man, that's because I do want to 
steal out of the room. Faith, I have often formed 
a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at 
any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance 120 
from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my reso- 
lution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit mod- 
esty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever 
counterfeit impudence. 

Hast. If you could but say half the fine things 125 
to them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar- 
maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker — 

Marl. Why, George, I can't say fine things to 
them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may 
talk of a comet; or a burning mountain, or some 130 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 231 

such bagatelle; but to me a modest woman, drest 
out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object 
of the whole creation. 

Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how 
can you ever expect to marry? 135 

Marl. Never; unless, as among kings and 
princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. 
If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were 
to be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it 
might be endured. But to go through all the ter- 140 
rors of a formal courtship, together with the epi- 
sode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at 
last to blurt out the broad staring question of, 
"Madam, will you marry me?" No, no, that's a 
strain much above me, I assure you. 145 

i Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
having to the lady you are come down to visit at 
the request of your father ? 

Marl. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow 
very low, answer yes or no to all her demands — 150 
But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to 
look in her face till I see my father's again. 

Hast. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a 
friend can be so cool a lover. 

Marl. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 155 



232 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

chief inducement down was to be instrumental in 
forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss 
Neville loves you, the family don't know you; 
as my friend you are sure of a reception, and let . 
honour do the rest. ^^° 

Hast. My dear Marlow ! But I'll suppress the 
emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to 
carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in 
the world! would apply to for assistance. But 
Miss Neville's person is all I ask, and that is mine, 165 
both from her deceased father's consent, and her 
own inclination. 

Marl. Happy man ! You have talents and art 
to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore 
the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of 17 
it I despise. This stammer in my address, and 
this awkward, prepossessing visage of mine can 
never permit me to soar above the reach of a milli- 
ner's 'prentice, or one of the duchesses° of Drury- 
lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us. 175 

Enter Hardcastle " I 

Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you are 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 233 

heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to 
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I 
like to give them a hearty reception in the old style i8o 
at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks 
taken care of. 

Marl. (Aside.) He has got our names from 
the servants already. (To him.) We approve 
your caution and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings.) 185 
I have been thinking, George, of changing our 
travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown 
confoundedly ashamed of mine. 

Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no cere- 
mony in this house. i^o 

Hast. I fancy, George, you're right; the first 
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the cam- 
paign with the white and gold. 

Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
men — pray be under no restraint in this house. 195 
This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just 
as you please here. 

Marl. Yet, George, if we open the campaign 
too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition be- 
fore it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery 200 
to secure a retreat. 

Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 



234 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when 
we went to besiege Denain.° He first summoned 
the garrison — ^°5 

Marl Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat . 
will do with the plain brown ? 

Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which 
might consist of about five thousand men — 

Hast. I think not: brown and yellow mix but 210 

very poorly. 

Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
he summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
about five thousand men — 

Marl. The girls like finery. 215 

Hard. Which might consist of about five thou- 
sand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, 
and other implements of war. ''Now," says the 
Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood 
next to him — you must have heard of George 22^ 
Brooks — ''I'll pawn my dukedom," says he, "but 
I take that garrison without spilling a drop of 
blood." So — 

Marl. What, my good friend, if you gave us a 
glass of punch in the meantime; it would help us 225 
to carry on the siege with vigour. 

Hard. Punch, sir ! (Aside.) This is the most 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 235 

unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met 
with. 

Marl. Yes, sir, punch ! A glass of warm punch, 230 
after our journey, will be comfortable. This is 
Liberty-hall, you know. 

Hard. Here's a cup, sir. 

Marl. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 235 

Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it 
to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are 
tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, 
sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better ac-240 
quaintance ! [Drinks. 

Marl. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this. 
But he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. 
Sir, my service to you. [Drinks. 

Hast. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 245 
us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, 
before he has learned to be a gentleman. 

Marl. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business 
in this part of the country. Warm work, now and 250 
then, at elections, I suppose ? 

Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work 



236 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedi- 
ent of electing each other, there is no business "for 
us that sell ale." 255 

Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, 
I find. 

Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, in- 
deed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of gov- 
ernment, like other people; but, finding myself 260 
every day grow more angry, and the government 
growing no better, I left it to mend itself. Since 
that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Ally,° 
or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. ° Sir, my 
service to you. 265 

Hast. So that, with eating above stairs, and 
drinking below, with receiving your friends within, 
and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleas- 
ant, bustling life of it. 

Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's cer-270 
tain. Half the differences of the parish are ad- 
justed in this very parlour. 

Marl. {After drinking.) And you have an ar- 
gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than 
any in Westminster-hall. 275 

Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
philosophy. 



i 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 237 

Marl. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I 
ever heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. 

Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you 280 
attack them on every quarter. If you find their 
reason manageable, you attack it with your phi- 
losophy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack 
them with this. Here's your health, my philoso- 
pher. [Drinks. 285 

Hard. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! 
Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eu- 
gene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of 
Belgrade. ° You shall hear. 

Marl. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I be- 290 
lieve it's almost time to talk about supper. What 
has your philosophy got in the house for supper? 

Hard. For supper, sir ! — (Aside.) Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house ! 

Marl. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an 295 
appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in 
the larder, I promise you. 

Hard. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog, sure, never 
my eyes beheld. (To him.) Why, really, sir, as 
for supper I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the 300 
cook-maid settle these things between them. I 
leave these kind of things entirely to them. 



238 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

Marl. You do, do you ? 

Hard. Entirely. By the bye, I believe they 
are in actual consultation upon what's for supper 305 
this moment in the kitchen. 

Marl. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When 
I travel I always choose to regulate my own sup- 
per. Let the cook be called. No offence, I hope, 310 
sir. 

Hard. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't 
know how: our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very 
communicative upon these occasions. Should we 
send for her, she might scold us all out of the 315 
house. 

Hast. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I 
ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to 
my bill of fare. 

Marl. (To Hardcastle, who looks at them icithz^o 
surprise.) Sir, he's very right, and it's my way 
too. 

Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's 
supper: I believe it's drawn out. (E'xiY Roger.) 325 
Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of 
my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his. 






Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 239 

that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten 
it. 

Hast. {Aside.) All upon the high ropes ! His 330 
uncle a colonel ! We shall soon hear of his mother 
being a justice of the peace. {Re-enter Roger.) 
But let's hear the bill of fare. 

Marl. {Perusing.) What's here ? For the first 
course; for the second course ; for the desert. The 335 
devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the 
whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of 
Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or three 
little things, clean and comfortable, will do. 

Hast. But let's hear it. 340 

Marl. {Reading.) For the first course, at the 
top, a pig, and pruin sauce. 

Hast. Damn your pig, I say ! 

Marl. And damn your pruin sauce, say I ! 

Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 345 
hungry, pig with pruin sauce is very good eating. 

Marl. At the bottom, a calf's tongue and 
brains. 

Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good 
sir, I don't like them. 350 

Marl. Or you may clap them on a plate by ' 
themselves. I do. 



240 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

Hard. {Aside.) Their impudence confounds 
me. {To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, 
make what alterations you please. Is there any- 355 
thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gentle- 
men? 

Marl. Item: A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
sausages, a Florentine,° a shaking pudding, and a 
dish of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! 360 

Hast. Confound your made dishes ! I shall be 
as much at a loss in this house as at a green and 
yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. 
I'm for plain eating. 

Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have noth-365 
ing you like, but if there be any thing you have a 
particular fancy to — 

Marl. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
another. Send us what you please. So much for 370 
supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, 
and properly taken care of. 

Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
You shall not stir a step. 

Marl. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 375 
must excuse me, I always look to these things my- 
self. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 241 

Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself 
easy on that head. 

Marl. You see I'm resolved on it. — (Aside.) 380 
A very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met 
with. 

Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend 
you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, but 
I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned 385 
impudence. [Exeunt Marlow and Hardcastle. 

Hast. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civili- 
ties begin to grow troublesome. But who can be 
angry at those assiduities which are meant to please 
him ? Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Seville, by all 390 
that's happy ! 

Enter Miss Neville 

Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
pected good fortune, to what accident, am I to 
ascribe this happy meeting? 

Hast. Rather let me ask the same question, as 395 
I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- 
stance at an inn. 

Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, 
my guardian, lives here. What could induce you 
to think this house an inn ? 4°° 



242 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER p^ 

Hast. My Mend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I 
came down, and I, have been sent here as to an 
inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we ac- 
cidentally met at a house hard by, directed us 
hither. ^ 405 

Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hope- 
ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me 
talk so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he 
of whom I have such just apprehensions ? 410 

Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, 
I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how 
heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, 
and has undertaken to court me for him, and 
actually begins to think she has made a conquest. 415 

Hast. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, 
my Constance, I have just seized this happy oppor- • 
tunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance 
into the family. The horses that carried us down 
are now fatigued with their journey, but they'll 420 
soon be refreshed; and, then, if my dearest girl 
will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be 
landed in France, where even among the slaves the 
laws of marriage are respected. 

Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though 425 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 243 

ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little for- 
tune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of 
it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and 
chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some 
time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. 1 430 
fancy I'm very near succeeding. The instant they 
are put into my possession, you shall find me ready 
to make them and myself yours. 

Hast. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all 
I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow435 
must not be let into his mistake. I know the 
strange reserve of his temper is such, that if ab- 
ruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the 
house before our plan was ripe for execution. 

Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the 440 
deception? Miss Hardcastle is just returned from 
walking ; what if we still continue to deceive him ? 
— This, this way — • [They confer. 

Enter Marlow 

Marl. The assiduities of these good people tease 
me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill 445 
manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only 
himself but his old-fashioned wife on my back. 



244 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

They talk of coming to sup with us, too; and then, 
I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all 
the rest of . the family. — What have we got 450 
here ? 

Hast. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
you ! — The most fortunate accident ! — Who do 
you think is just alighted ? 

Marl. Cannot guess. 455 

Hast. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hardcastle and 
Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss 
Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happen- 
ing to dine in the neighbourhood, they called on 
their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hard- 460 
castle has just stept into the next room, and will 
be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky ? eh ! 

Marl. (Aside.) I have just been mortified 
enough of all conscience, and here comes some- 
thing to complete my embarrassment. 465 

Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate 
thing in the world? 

Marl. Oh, yes ! Very fortunate — a most joy- 
ful encounter — But our dresses, George, you 
know, are in disorder — What if we should post- 470 
pone the happiness till to-morrow ? — To-morrow 
at her own house — It will be everv bit as conven- 



I 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 245 

lent — and rather more respectful — To-morrow 
let it be. [Offering to go. 

Miss Nev. By no means, sir. Your ceremony 475 
will displease her. The disorder of your dress will 
show the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she 
knows you are in the house, and will permit you to 
see her. 

Marl. Oh, the devil ! How shall I support it ? 480 
Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You 
are to assist me, you know. I shall be confound- 
edly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage. 
Hem ! 

Hast. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, 485 
and all's over. She's but a woman, you know. 

Marl. And, of all women, she that I dread most 
to encounter. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking, 
a bonnet, etc. 

Hast. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. 
Marlow; I'm proud of bringing two persons of such 490 
merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
each other. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) Now for meeting my 



246 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite 
in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he 4% 
appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad 
of your safe arrival, sir — I'm told you had some . 
accidents by the way. 

Marl. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. 
Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be 500 
sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents 
— that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hast. (To him.) You never spoke better in 
your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you 
the victory. 505 

Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
that have seen so much of the finest company can 
find little entertainment in an obscure corner of 
the country. 

Marl. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, in- 510 
deed, in the world, madam ; but I have kept very 
little company. I have been but . an observer 
upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to 
enjoy it at last. . 515 

Hast. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. 
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance 
for ever. 



^1 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 247 

Marl. {To him.) Hem ! Stand by me then, 
and when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set 520 
me up again. 

Miss Hard. An observer, hke you, upon hfe, 
were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must 
have had much more to censure than to approve. 

Marl. Pardon me, madam. I was always will- 525 
ing to be amused. The folly of most people is 
rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 

Hast. {To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, 
I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very 530 
good company. I believe our being here will but 
embarrass the interview. 

Marl. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
your company of all things. {To him.) Zounds, 
George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? 535 

Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
so we'll retire to the next room. {To him.) You 
don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little 
tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt. 

Miss Hard. {After a pause.) But you have not 540 
been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the ladies, 
I should hope, have employed some part of your 
addresses. 



248 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

Marl. {Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, 
madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only 545 
— to — deserve them. 

Miss Hard. And that, some say, is the very . 
worst way to obtain them. 

Marl. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
verse only with the more grave and sensible part 550 
of the sex. — But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 

Miss Hard. Not at all, sir; there is nothing I 
like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could 
hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been sur- 
prised how a man of sentiment could ever admire 555 
those light, airy pleasures, where nothing reaches 
the heart. 

Marl. It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. 
In the variety of tastes there must be some who, 
wanting a relish — for — um — a — um — 560 

Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must 
be some, who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, 
pretend to despise what they are incapable of 
tasting. 

Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely bet- 565 
ter expressed. And I can't help observing — 
a — 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose ' 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 249 

this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! {To 
him.) You were going to observe, sir — 570 

Marl. I was observing, madam — I protest, 
madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To 
him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. , 575 

Marl. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy 
there are few who upon strict inquiry do not — a 

— a — a — 

Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Marl. (Aside.) Egad ! and that's more than 1 580 
do myself. 

Miss Hard. You mean that, in this hypocritical 
age, there are a few who do not condemn in public 
what they practise in private, and think they pay 
every debt to virtue when they praise it. 585 

- Marl. True, madam; those who have most 
virtue in their mouths have least of it in their 
bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's some- 
thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such 590 
life and force — pray, sir, go on. 

Marl. Yes, madam, I was saying — that there 
are some occasions — when a total want of cour- 



250 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

age, madam, destroys all the — and puts us — 
upon — a — a — a — 595 

Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely; a want 
of courage upon some occasions assumes the appear- • 
ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most 
want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 

Marl. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam 600 
— but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next 
room. I would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more 
agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray, go on. 

Marl. Yes, madam, I was — But she beckons 605 
us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the 
honour to attend you? 

Miss Hard. Well, then, I'll follow. 

Marl. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue 
has done for me. [Exit. 610 

Miss Hard. (Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was 
there ever such a sober, sentimental interview? 
I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole 
time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable 
bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good sense, 615 
but then so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one 
more than ignorance. If I could teach him a little 
confidence, it would be doing somebody that I 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 251 

know of a piece of service. But who is that some- 
body ? — That, faith, is a question I can scarce 620 
answer. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. 
Hardcastle and Hastings 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? 
I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 

MifGS Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
one's own relations, and not be to blame. 625 

Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation 
you want to make me, though; but it won't do. I 
tell you, cousin Con, it won't do; so I beg you'll 
keep your distance. I want no nearer relation- 
ship. [She follows J coquetting him, to the bach scene. 630 

Mrs. Hard. Well ! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are 
very entertaining. There's nothing in the world I 
love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, 
though I was never there myself. 

Hast. Never there ! You amaze me ! From 635 
your air and manner, I concluded you had been 
bted all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, 
or Tower Wharf.° 

Mrs. Hard. O, sir! you're only pleased to say 



1 



252 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

SO. We country persons can have no manner at 640 
all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to 
raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics; 
but who can have a manner that has never seen 
the Pantheon,° the Grotto Gardens, the Borough,° 
and such places where the nobility chiefly resort? 645 
All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I 
take care to know every tete-a-tete horn, the Scan- 
dalous Magazine,^ and have all the fashions, as 
they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rick- 
ets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do you like this 650 
head, Mr. Hastings ? 

Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I 
suppose ? 

Mrs. Hard. I protest, 1 dressed it myself from 655 
a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book° for the 
last year. 

Hast. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box, at 
the play-house, would draw as many gazers as my 
Lady Mayoress at a City Ball. 660 

Mrs. Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, . I 
there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; 
so one must dress a little particular, or one may 
escape in the crowd. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 253 

Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, 665 
in any dress. {Bowing.) 

Mrs. Hard. Yet, what signifies my dressing, 
when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side 
as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can say will never argue 
down a single button from his clothes. I have 670 
often wanted him to throw off his great flaxen wig, 
and where he was bald, to plaster it over, like my 
Lord Pately, with powder. 

Hast. You are right, madam; for, as among 
the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men 675 
there are none old. 

Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer 
was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he 
said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to con- 
vert it into a tete for my own wearing ! 680 

Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 

Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode; 685 
but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for 
the ensuing winter. 

Mrs. Hard. Seriously? Then I shall be too 
young for the fashion ! 



254 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act H 

Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 690 
she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a 
polite circle, would be considered as a child, a mere 
maker of samplers. 

Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself 
as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the 695 
oldest of us all. 

Hast. Your niece, is she? And that young 
gentleman, — a brother of yours, I should pre- 
sume ? 

Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted 700 
to each other. Observe their little sports. They 
fall in and out ten times a-day, as if they were man 
and wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, child, 
what soft things are you saying to your cousin Con- 
stance, this evening ? 705 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things; but 
that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! 
I've not a place in the house now that's left to my- 
self, but the stable. 

Mrs. Hard. Never mind him. Con, my dear. 710 
He's in another story behind your back. 

Miss Nev. There's something generous in my 
cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to be 
forgiven in private. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 255 

Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. 715 

Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
think they're hke each other about the mouth, 
Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. 
They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, 
that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 720 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell 
you. {Measuring.) 

Miss Nev. lud ! he has almost cracked my 
head. 

Mrs. Hard. O, the monster ! For shame, Tony. 725 
You a man, and behave so ! 

, Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. 
Ecod ! I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hard. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm 
to get for the pains I have taken in your education ? 730 
I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that 
pretty mouth with a spoon ! Did not I work that 
waistcoat to make you genteel? Did not I pre- 
scribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt 
was operating ? 735 

Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you 
have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have 
gone through every receipt in the Complete Hus- 
wife ten times over; and you have thoughts of 



256 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

coursing me through Quincy° next spring. But, 740 
ecod ! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper ? 
Wasn't it all for your good ? 

Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits ! 745 
If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not 
to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hard. That's false; I never see you when 
you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the 
ale-house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted 750 
with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 

Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
wildest of the two. 

Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like? But I see he 
wants to break my heart, I see he does. 755 

Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can per- 
suade him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, Con- 
stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the 760 
wretchedness of my situation: was ever poor - 
woman so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, pro- 
voking, undutiful boy. 

[Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 257 

Hastings, Tony 

Tony. {Singing.) '^ There was a young man 
riding by, and fain would have his will. Rang do 765 
didlo dee." Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's 
the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and 
sister cry over a book for an hour together, and 
they said they liked the book the better the more 
it made them cry. 770 

Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
find, my pretty young gentleman? 

Tony. That's as I find 'um. 

Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I 
dare answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, 775 
well-tempered girl. 

Tony. That's because you don't know her as 
well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her; 
and there's not a more bitter cantanckerous toad 
in all Christendom ! 780 

Hast. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for 
a lover ! 

Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a 
colt the first day's breaking. 785 

Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent ! 



258 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act II 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's 
with her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a 
gate. 

Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her 790 
that charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she 
kicks up, and you're flung in a ditch. 

Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little 
beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some 795 
beauty. 

To7iy. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, 
mun. Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these 
parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she 
has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad 800 
and red as. a pulpit cushion. She'd make two of 
she. 

Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that 
would take this bitter bargain off your hands? 

Tony. Anon ! 805 

Hast. Would you thank him that w^ould take 
Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your 
dear Betsy ? 

Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend, for 
who would take her ? 810 

Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll en- 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 259 

gage to whip her off to France, and you shall never 
hear more of her. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last drop 
of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your 815 
chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, 
and may be get you a part of her fortin besides, in 
jewels, that you little dream of. 

HasL My dear 'Squire, this looks like a lad of 
spirit. 820 

Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see 
more of my spirit before you have done with 
me. (Singing.) 

" We are the boys 
That fears no noise, 825 

Where the thundering cannons roar." 

[Exeunt. 

ACT THE THIRD 

Scene I. — The House 
Enter Hardcastle, alone 

Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
mean by recommending his son as the modestest 
young man in town ? To me he appears the most 
impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a 



260 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair 5 
by the fire-side already. He took his boots off in 
the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care 
of. I'm desirous to know how his impudence affects ' 
my daughter. — She will certainly be shocked at it. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed 

Hard. Well, niy Kate, I see you have changed 10 
your dress, as I bid you; and yet, I believe, there 
was no great occasion. 

Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obey- 
ing your commands, that I take care to observe 
them without ever debating their propriety. 15 

Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give j^ou 
some cause, particularly when I recommended my 
modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hard. You taught me to expect some- 
thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds 20 
the description. 

Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He 
has quite confounded all my faculties ! 

Miss Hard. I never saw anything like it; and 
a man of the world, too ! 25 

Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad, — what a 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 261 

fool was I, to think a young man could learn mod- 
esty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit 
at a masquerade. 

Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 30 

Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company 
and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hard. Sure, you mistake, papa! A 
French dancing-master could never have taught 
him that timid look, — that awkward address, — 35 
that bashful manner — 

Hard. Whose look ? whose manner, child ? 

Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's: his mauvaise honte, 
his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hard. Then your first sight deceived you; for 40 
I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
ever astonished my senses. 

Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
any one so modest. 

Hard. And can you be serious ! I never saw 45 
such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was 
born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a re- 
spectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed 
on the ground. 50 

Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 



k 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze 
again. 

Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and 
respect; censured the manners of the age; ad- 55 
mired the prudence of girls that never laughed; 
tired me with apologies for being tiresome; then 
left the room with a bow, and "Madam, I would 
not for the world detain you." 

Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 60 
life before; asked twenty questions, and never 
waited for an answer ; interrupted my best remarks 
with some silly pun; and when I was in my best 
story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eu- 
gene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making 65 
punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was 
a maker of punch. 

Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mis- 
taken. 

Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm 70 
determined he shall never have my consent. 

Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take 
him, he shall never have mine. 

Hard. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
reject him. 75 

Miss Hard. Yes — but upon conditions. For 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 263 

if you should find him less impudent; and I more . 
presuming; if you find him more respectful , and 
I more importunate — I don't know — the fellow 
is well enough for a man — Certainly we don't meet So 
many such at a horse-race in the country. 

Hard. If we should find him so — But that's 
impossible. The first appearance has done my 
business. I'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good 85 
qualities under that first appearance. 

Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest 
of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands 
for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. 90 

Miss Ho.rd. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
with a compliment to my good sense won't end with 
a sneer at my understanding ? 

Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradic- 95 
tions, he may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hard. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
what if we go to make further discoveries ? 

Hard. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the right. 

Miss Hard. And, depend on't, I'm not much in 100 
the wrong. [Exeunt. 



264 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 



Enter Tony, running in with a casket 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My 
mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their 
fortin neither. 0, my genus ! is that you? 105 



Enter Hastings 

Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed 
with your mother? I hope you have amused her 
with pretending love for your cousin, and that you 
are willing to be reconciled at last? Our horses 
will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon no 
be ready to set off. 

Tony. And here's something to bear your 
charges by the way, — (giving the casket) your 
sweetheart's jewels. Keep them : and hang those, 
I say, that would rob you of one of them ! 115 

Hast. But how have you procured them from 
your mother ? 

Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I 
I had not a key to every drawer in mother's bu-120' 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 265 

reau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I 
do? An honest man may rob himself of his own 
at any time. 

Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be 
plain with you ; Miss Neville is endeavouring to 125 
procure them from her aunt this very instant. If 
she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at 
least of obtaining them. 

Tony. Well, keep them, until you know how it 
will be. But I know how it will be well enough; 130 
she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her 
head. 

Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment 
when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave 135 
me to manage that. I don't value her resentment 
the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are ! 
Morrice° ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings. 

Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Neville 

Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 
Such a girl as you want jewels ? It will be time 140 
enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hencC; 
when your beauty begins to want repairs. 



266 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

Miss Nev. But what will repair beauty at 
forty will certainly improve it at twenty, 
madam. H5 

Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. • 
That natural blush is beyond a thousand orna- 
ments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at 
present. Don't you see half the ladies of our 
acquaintance, my Lady Kill-day-light, and Mrs. 150 
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to 
town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites° 
back? 

Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but some- 
body that shall be nameless w^ould like me best 155 
with all my little finery about me? 

Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my 
dear ? Does your cousin Con want any jewels, in 160 
your eyes, to set off her beauty ? 

Tony. That's as thereafter may be. 

Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 165 
table-cut things. They would make you look like 
the court of King Solomon° at a puppet-show. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 267 

Besides, I believe I can't readily come at them. 
They may be missing, for aught I know to the 
contrary. 170 

Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then 
why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so long- 
ing for them? Tell her they're lost. It's the only 
way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to 
bear witness. 175 

Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say 
they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! 
he ! he ! 

Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Never 180 
fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them taken out 
with my own eyes. 

Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. 
Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and 
then they may be locked up again. 185 

Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear 
Constance, if I could find them, you should have 
them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for 
aught I know; but we must have patience wher- 
ever they are. 190 

Miss Nev. I'll not believe it; this is but a shal- 
low pretence to deny me. I know they are too 



268 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act 



f 



valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to 
answer for the loss — 

Mrs, Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 195 
they be lost, I. must restore an equivalent. But - 
my son knows they are missing, and not to be 
found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are 
missing, and not to be found; I'll take my oath 200 
on't. 

Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my 
dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should 
not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. 

Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the 205 
misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good 
sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. 
We shall soon find them; and, in the mean time, 
you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels 210 
be found. 

Miss Nev. 1 detest garnets ! 

Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the 
world to set off a clear complexion. You have - 
often seen how well they look upon me. You shall 21^ 
have them. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. You 



Scene I] SHi: STOOPS TO CONQUER 269 

shan't stir. — Was ever any thing so provoking, to 
mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
trumpery ? 220 

Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the 
garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are 
your own already. I have stolen them out of her 
bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your 
spark; he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave 225 
me to manage her. 

Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! 

Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed 
them alread}^ [Exit Miss Neville.] Zounds ! 
how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine 230 
wheel. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle 

Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 

Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, 
mamma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of 235 
the good family ! 

Mrs. Hard. We are robbed. My bureau has 
been broke open, the jewels taken out, and I'm 
undone. 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 240 



270 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

laws I never saw it better acted in my life. 
Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! 
ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. • 
My bureau has been broke open, and all taken 245 
away. 

Tony. Stick to that ; ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to 
that. I'll bear witness, you know; call me to bear 
witness. 

Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's pre- 250 
cious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined 
forever. 

Tony. Sure I know they're gone, and I am to 
say so. 

Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 255 
They're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for 
to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well 
enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, 260 
that can't tell the difference between jest and ear- 
nest ! I can tell you I'm not in jest, booby ! 

Tony. That's right, that's right; you must be 
in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect 
either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 265 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 271 

Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained 
brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear witness 
that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor 
woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves 
on the other ! 270 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead, 
you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. 
My poor niece, what will become of her? Do you 
laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my 275 
distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster? I'll 
teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 280 

[He runs off ; she follows him. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid 

Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature 
is that brother of mine, to send them to the house 
as an inn, ha ! ha ! I don't wonder at his impu- 
dence. 

Maid. But what is more, madam, the young 285 
gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, 



272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act 

asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook 
you for the bar-maid, madam ! 

Miss Hard. Did he? Then, as I Hve, I'm re- 
solved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 290 
how do you like my present dress? Don't you 
think I look something like Cherry ° in the Beaux' 
Stratagem? 

Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady 
wears in the country, but when she visits or receives 295 
company. 

Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not 
remember my face or person? 

Maid. Certain of it ! 

Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so; for though 300 
we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
such that he never once looked up during the inter- 
view. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have 
kept him from seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping 305 
him in his mistake? 

Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings 
her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an 
acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained 310 
over one who never addresses any but the wildest 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 273 

of her sex. But my chief aim is to take my gen- 
tleman off his guard, and, Hke an invisible cham- 
pion of romance, examine the giant's force before 
I offer to combat. 315 

Maid. But are you sure you can act your 
part, and disguise your voice, so that he may 
mistake that, as he has already mistaken your 
person ? 

Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have 320 
got the true bar cant. — Did your honour call ? — 
Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for 
the Angel. — The Lamb° has been outrageous this 
half hour. 

Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 325 

[Exit Maid. 

Enter Marlow 

Marl. What a bawling in every part of the 
house; I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go 
to the best room, there I find my host and his 
story; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my 
hostess with her curtesy down to the ground. 1 330 
have at last got a moment to myself, and now for 
recollection. \Walks and muses. 



274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

Miss Hard. Did you call, sir? Did your hon- 
our call ? 

Marl. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 335 
too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hard. Did your honour call ? 

[She still places herself before hirn, he turning 
away. 

Marl. No, child ! (Musing.) Besides, from the 
glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 340 

Marl. No, no ! (Musing.) I have pleased my 
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-mor- 
row please myself by returning. 

[Taking out his tablets and perusing. 

Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, 
sir ? 345 

Marl. 1 tell you no. 

Miss Hard. 1 should be glad to know, sir. We 
have such a parcel of servants. 

Marl. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her 
face.) Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — 350 
I wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly hand- 
some ! 

Miss Hard. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 

Marl. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 275 

eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got 355 
any of your — a — what d'ye call it in the 
house ? 

Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that 
these ten days. 

Marl. One may call in this house, I find, to 360 
very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a 
taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your 
lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that 
too? 

Miss Hard. Nectar? nectar? That's a liquor 365 
there's no call for in these parts. French, I sup- 
pose. We keep no French wines here, sir. 

Marl. Of true English growth, I assure you. 

Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know 
it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and 370 
I have lived here these eighteen years. 

Marl. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
old are you ? 

Miss Hard. O ! sir, I must not tell my age. 375 
They say women and music should never be dated. 

Marl. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
much above forty. (Approaching.) Yet nearer, I 
don't think so much. (Approaching.) By com- 



276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act III 

ing close to some women, they look younger still; 380 
but when we come very close indeed — 

[Attem'pting to kiss her. 

Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
would think you wanted to know one's age as they 
do horses, by mark of mouth. 

Marl. I protest, child, you use me extremely 385 
ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it pos- 
sible you and I can be ever acquainted ? 

Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted 
with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. 
I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that 390 
was here a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. 
I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and 
kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the 
world, as if you were before a justice of peace. 

Marl. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure 395 
enough ! (To her.) In awe of her, child ? Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! A mere awkward, squinting thing ! No, 
no ! I find you don't know me. I laughed and 
rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too 
severe. No, I c'ould not be too severe, curse me 1400" 

Miss Hard. Oh, then, sir, you are a favourite, 
I find, among the ladies ? 

Marl. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 277 

yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
follow. At the Ladies' Club in town I'm called 405 
their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my 
real name, but one I'm known by. My name is 
Solomons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. 

[Offering to salute her. 

Miss Hard. Hold, sir; you are introducing me 
to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great 410 
a favourite there, you say ? 

Marl. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your 
humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 415 

Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place, I sup- 
pose? 

Marl. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, 
and old women can make us. 

Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! ha ! 420 
ha! 

Marl. (Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this 
chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, 
child? 

Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what 425 
time they all have for minding their work or their 
family. 



1 



278 ^HE STOOPS TO CONQUEk [Act III 

Marl. (Aside.) All's well; she don't laugh at 
me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child ? 

Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or 430 
a quilt in the whole house but what can bear wit- 
ness to that. 

Marl. Odso ! Then you must show me your 
embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns my- 
self a little. If you want a judge of your work, 435 
you must apply to me. [Seizing her hand. 

Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise 

Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours don't look well 
by candlelight. You shall see all in the morning. 

[Struggling. 

Marl. And why not now, my angel? Such 
beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. — 440 
Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck : I never 
nicked seven that I did not throw ames-ace° three 
times following. [Exit Marlow. 

Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is 3^our mod- 
est lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept 445 
his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at 
humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not 
ashamed to deceive your father so? 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 279 

Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's 
still the modest man I first took him for; you'll be 450 
convinced of it as well as I. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize 
your hand ? Didn't I see him hawl you about like 
a milkmaid ? And now you talk of his respect and 455 
his modesty, forsooth ! 

Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of 
his modesty, that he has only the faults that will 
pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve 
with age, I hope you'll forgive him. 460 

Hard. The girl would actually make one run 
mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am con- 
vinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the 
house, and he has already encroached on all my 
prerogatives. You may like his. impudence, and 465 
call it modesty; but my son-in-law, madam, must 
have very different qualifications. 

Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to con- 
vince you. 

Hard. You shall not have half the time, for 1 470 
have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 

Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I 
hope to satisfy you. 



280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

Hard. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll 
have no trifling with your father. All fair and 475 
open, do you mind me ? 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found * 
that I considered your commands as my pride; 
for your kindness is such that my duty as yet has 
been inclination. [Exeunt. 480 



ACT THE FOURTH 
Scene I. — The House 
Enter Hastings and Miss Neville 

Hast. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow 
expected here this night ! Where have you had 
your information? . 

Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just 
saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells 5 
him he intends setting out in a few hours after his 
son. 

Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 
pleted before he arrives. He knows me; and should 
he find me here, would discover my name and, per- 10 
haps, my designs, to the rest of the family. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 281 

Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe? 

Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean 
time, I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. 15 
I have had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh pair of 
horses; and, if I should not see him again, will 
write him further directions. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. Well, success attend you ! In the 
mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pre- 20 
tence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 

Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant 

Marl. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep 
for him, when he knows the only place I have is the 
seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you 25 
deposited the casket with the landlady, as I or- 
dered you ? Have you put it into her own hands ? 

Serv. Yes, your honour. 

Marl. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? 

Serv. Yes; she said she'd keep it safe enough; 30 
she asked me how I came by it; and she said she 
had a great mind to make me give an account of 
myself. [Exit Servant. 



282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [A.ct IV 

Marl. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. 
What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 35 
amongst ! This Httle bar-maid, though, runs in my 
head most strangely, and drives out the absurdi- . 
ties of all the rest of the family. She's mine, she 
must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 

Enter Hastings 

Hast Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that 40 
I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 

Marl. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow 
me with laurels ! Well, George, after all, we mod- 
est fellows don't want for success among the women. 45 

Hast. Some women, you mean. But what suc- 
cess has your honour's modesty been crowned with 
now that it grows so insolent upon us ? 

Marl. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, 
lovely, little thing, that runs about the house with 50 
a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 

Hast. Well, and what then ? 

Marl. She's mine, 3^ou rogue, you. Such fire, 
such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she 
would not let me kiss them though. 55 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 283 

Hast. But are you sure, so very sure of her ? 

Marl. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
work above stairs, and I am to approve the pat- 
tern. 

Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to 60 
rob a woman of her honour ? 

Marl. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the hon- 
our of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to 
rob her, take my word for it. 

Hast. I believe the girl has virtue. 65 

Marl. And if she has, I should be the last man 
in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 

Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
casket I sent you to lock up? It's in safety? 

Marl. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have 70 
taken care of it. But how could you think the 
seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? 
Ah ! numskull ! I have taken better precautions 
for you than you did for yourself — I have — 

Hast. What? 75 

Marl. I have sent it to the landlady to keep 
for you. 

Hast. To the landlady ! 

Marl. The landlady. 

Hast. You did ! 80 



284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

Marl. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
forthcoming, you know. 

Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. 

Marl. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow • 
that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 85 

Hast. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasi- 
ness. 

Marl. You seem a little disconcerted though, 
methinks. Sure, nothing has happened ? 

Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits 90 
in all my life. And so you left it with the land- 
lady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the 
charge ? 

Marl. Rather too readily. For she not only 
kept the casket, but, through her great precaution, 95 
was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Hast. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however. 

Marl. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 

Hast. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 100 
at an end, and we must set off without it. (To 
him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your medi- ■ 
tations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! 
may you be as successful for yourself as you have 
been for me ! [Exit. 105 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 285 

Marl. Thank ye, George : I ask no more. Ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Enter Hardcastle . 

Hard. I no longer know my own house. It's 
turned all topsey-turvey. His servants have got 
drunk already. I'll bear it no longer; and yet, no 
from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To 
him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very 
humble servant. [Bowing low. 

Marl. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) 
What is to be the wonder now? 115 

Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
that no man alive ought to be more welcome than 
your father's son, sir. I hope you think so ? 

Marl. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want 
much entreaty. I generally make my father's son 120 
welcome wherever he goes. 

Hard. 1 believe you do, from my soul, sir. But 
though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of 
your servants is insufferable. Their manner of 
drinking is setting a very bad example in this 125 
house, I assure you. 

Marl. I protest, my very good sir, that is no 
fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, 



286 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare 
the cellar. I did, I assure you. {To the side^ i^o 
scene.) Here, let one of my servants come up. 
{To him.) My positive directions were, that as I . 
did not drink myself, they should make up for my 
deficiencies below. 

Hard. Then they had your orders for what 135 
they do? I'm satisfied ! 

Marl. They had, I assure you. You shall hear 
it from one of themselves. 



Enter Servant, drunk 

Marl. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
What were my orders ? Were you not told to 140 
drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for 
the good of the house ? 

Hard. {Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 

Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet- 
street forever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as 145 
good as another man. I'll drink for no man before 
supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a . 
good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon 
— hiccup — upon my conscience, sir. [Exit. 

Marl. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as 150 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 287 

drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what 
you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil 
soused in a beer-barrel. 

Hard. Zounds ! he'll drive me distracted, if I 
contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow. Sir; 1 155 
have submitted to your insolence for more than 
four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to 
an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, 
and I desire that you and your drunken pack may 
leave my house directly. 160 

Marl. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
good friend ! What, when I am doing what I can 
to please you ! 

Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me; so I 
desire you'll leave my house. 165 

Marl. Sure, you cannot be serious? At this 
time of night, and such a night ? You only mean 
to banter me. 

Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and, now that 
my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, i;o 
sir; this house is mine, and I command you to 
leave it directly. 

Marl. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
shan't stir a step, I assure you. {In a serious 
tone.) This your house, fellow! It's my house. 175 



288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. 
What right have you to bid me leave this house, 
sir? I never met with such impudence, curse me; 
never in my whole life before. 

Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did! To i8o 
come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn 
me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to 
order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell 
me, ^'This house is mine, sir." By all that's impu- 
dent, it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, 185 
sir, (bantering) as you take the house, what think 
you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's 
a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire- 
screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows; 
perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? 190 

Marl. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your 
bill, and let's make no more words about it. 

Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress° for your own 
apartment? 195 

Marl. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 

Hard. Then there's a mahogany table that you 
may see your face in. 

Marl. My bill, I say. 200 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 289 

Hard. I had forgot the great chair for your own 
particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Marl. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and 
let's hear no more on't. 

Hard. Young man, young man, from your 205 
father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well- 
bred, modest man as a visitor here, but now I find 
him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he 
will be down here presently, and shall hear more 
of it. [Exit. 210 

Marl. How's this ! Sure, I have not mistaken 
the house? Everything looks like an inn. The 
servants cry '' Coming." The attendance is awk- 
ward; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's 
here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, 215 
child ? A word with you. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle 

Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
hurry. — {Aside.) I believe he begins to find out 
his mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive 
him. 220 

Marl. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
What are you, and what may your business in this 
house be ? 
u 



290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marl. What, a poor relation ? 225 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir. A poor relation, ap- 
pointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests • 
want nothing in my power to give them. 

Marl. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this 
inn. 230 

Miss Hard. Inn ! O law — What brought that 
into your head? One of the first families in the 
county keep an inn ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. 
Hardcastle's house an inn! 

Marl. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. 235 
Hardcastle's house, child? 

Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be ? 

Marl. So, then, all's out, and I have been dam- 
nably imposed on. O, confound my stupid head, 
I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall 240 
be stuck up in caricature in all the print-shops. 
The Dullissimo Maccaroni.° To mistake this house 
of all others for an inn, and my father's old friend 
for an innkeeper ! What a swaggering puppy 
must he take me for ! What a silly puppy do 1 245 
find myself ! There again, may I be hanged, my 
dear, but I mistook you for the bar-maid. 

Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there^s 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 291 

nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level 
with one of that stamp. 250 

Marl. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was 
in for a list of blunders, and could not help making 
you a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything 
the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for as- 
surance, and your simplicity for allurement. But 255 
it's over — this house I no more show my face 
in. 

Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to 
disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so 260 
many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be 
sorry {pretending to cry) if he left the family on my 
account. I'm sure I should be sorry people said 
anything amiss, since I have no fortune but my 
character. 265 

Marl. {Aside.) By Heaven ! she weeps. This 
is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a 
modest woman, and it touches me. {To her.) 
Excuse me, my lovely girl; you are the only part 
of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be 270 
plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, 
and education, make an honourable connexion im- 
possible; and I can never harbour a thought of 



292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, or 
bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being 275 
too lovely. 

Miss Hard. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now ' 
begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure 
my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's; and 
though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a 280 
contented mind; and, until this moment, I never 
thought that it was bad to want fortune. 

Marl. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 

Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance 
from one that if I had a thousand pounds I would 285 
give it all to. 

Marl. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me 
so that if I stay I'm undone. I must make one 
bold effort, and leave her. (To her.) Your par- 
tiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most 290 
sensibly, and were I to live for myself alone, I could 
easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the 
opinion of the world, too much to the authority of 
a father ; so that — I can scarcely speak it — it 
affects me. Farewell ! [Exit. 295 

Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. 
He shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
him. I'll still preserve the character in which I 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 293 

stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, 
who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. 300 

[Exit. 
Enter Tony and Miss Neville 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the 
next time. I have done my duty. She has got 
the jewels again, that's a sure thing; but she be- 
lieves it was all a mistake of the servants. 

Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't 305 
forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least sus- 
pects that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked 
up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten 
times worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 310 
bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you 
a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle- jacket°; 
and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you 
nicely before her face. Here she comes; we must 
court a bit or two more, for fear she should sus-315 
pect us. [They retire and seem to fondle. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle 

Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be 
sure. But my son tells me it was all a mistake of 



I 



294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till 
they are fairly married, and then let her keep her 320 
own fortune. But what do I see? fondling to- 
gether, as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly • 
before. Ah ! have I caught you, my pretty doves ? 
What, billing, exchanging glances, and broken mur- 
murs ? Ah ! 325 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a 
little now and then, to be sure. But there's no 
love lost between us. 

Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the 
flame, only to make it burn brighter. 330 

Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't 
leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, 
will it? 

Tony. O, it's a pretty creature ! No, I'd sooner 335 
leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when 
you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so 
becoming. 

Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help 
admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad, 340 
red, thoughtless (patting his cheek) — ah ! it's a 
bold face ! 

Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 295 

Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's 
hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she 345 
twists this way and that over haspicholls, like a 
parcel of bobbins. 

Airs. Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from 
the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 350 
The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours inconti- 
nently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet 
boy, my dear? You shall be married to-morrow, 
and we'll put off the rest of his education, like Dr. 
Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity. 355 

Enter Diggory 

Dig. Where's the 'Squire? I have got a letter 
for your worship. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all 
my letters first. 

Dig. I had orders to deliver it into your own 360 
hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from ? 

Dig. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
itself. [Exit Diggory. 

Tony. I could wish to know, though. 365 

[Turning the letter, and gazing on it. 



296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone! undone! A letter 
to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my 
aunt sees it, we are ruined forever. I'll keep her 
employed a Uttle, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle.) * 
But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's 370 
smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so 
laughed — You must know, madam. — This way 
a little, for he must not hear us. [They conjer. 

To7iy. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece 
of penmanship as ever I saw in my hfe. I can read 375 
your print-hand very well. But here there are such 
handles, and shanks, and dashes that one can scarce 
tell the head from the tail. " To Anthony Lump- 
kin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can read the out- 
side of my letters, where my own name is, well 380 
enough. But when I come to open it, it's all — 
buzz. That's hard — very hard; for the inside of 
the letter is always the cream of the correspondence. 

Mrs. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very 
well. And so my son was too hard for the phi- 385 
losopher. 

Miss Nev. Yes, madam; but you must hear 
the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he 
may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him 
again. 390| 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 297 

Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now 
himself, methinks, 

Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned up and down 
hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading.) 
''Dear Sir," — Ay, that's that. Then there's an 395 
M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an 
izzard or an R, confound me, I cannot tell ! 

Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear ? Can I give 
you any assistance? 

Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 400 
reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitching the 
letter from her.) Do you know who it is from ? 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
feeder. 

Miss Nev. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read.) 405 
Dear 'Squire, hoping that you're in health, as I am 
at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag° 
club has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green 
quite out of feather. The odds — um — odd bat- 
tle — um — long fighting — um — here, here, it's 410 
all about cocks and fighting ; it's of no consequence; 
here, put it up, put it up. 

[Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him. 

Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the conse- 
quence in the world ! I would not lose the rest of 



298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

it for a guinea! Here, mother, do you make it 415 
out. Of no consequence ! 

[Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hard. How's this? (Reads.) ''Dear 
'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a 
post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of the garden, 
but I find my horses yet unable to perform the 420 
journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of 
fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is neces- 
sary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother, will 
otherwise suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant 
me patience. I shall run distracted ! My rage 425 
chokes me ! 

Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your 
resentment for a few moments, and not impute to 
me any impertinence, or sinister design, that be- 
longs to another. 430 

Mrs. Hard. (Curtesying very loio.) Fine spoken 
madam; you are most miraculously polite and en- 
gaging, and quite the very pink of curtesy and cir- 
cumspection, madam. {Changing her tone.) And 
you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense 435 
enough to keep your mouth shut: were you, too, 
joined against me? But I'll defeat all your plots 
in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 299 

got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel 
to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead of 440 
running away with your spark, prepare this very 
moment to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedi- 
gree will keep you secure, I'll warrant me. You 
too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon 
the way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I'll 445 
show you that I wish you better than you do your- 
selves. [Exit. 

Miss Nev. So, now I'm completely ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 

Miss Nev. What better could be expected from 450 
being connected with such "a stupid fool, — and 
after all the nods and signs I made him T 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever- 
ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business. 
You were so nice and so busy with your Shake- 455 
bags and Goose-greens that I thought you could 
never be making believe. 

Enter Hastings 

Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant that you 
have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was this 
well done, young gentleman ? 460 



300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who 
betrayed you. Ecod, it was her doing, not mine. 

Enter Marlow * 

Marl. So I have been finely used here among 
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-man- 
ners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 465 

Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bed- 
lam broke loose presently. 

Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
whom we all owe every obligation. 

Marl. What can I say to him, a mere boy, an 470 
idiot, whosfe ignorance and age are a protection. 

Hast. A poor, contemptible booby, that would 
but disgrace correction. 

Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
to make himself merry with all our embarrass- 475 
ments. • 

Hast. An insensible cub. 

Marl. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'll fight you both, 
one after the other — with baskets.. 480 

Marl. As for him, he's below resentment. But 
your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explana- 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 301 

tion. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not 
undeceive me. 

Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disap-485 
pointments, is this a time for explanations ? It is 
not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 

Marl. But, sir — 

Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 490 
pacified. 

Enter Servant 

Serv. My mistress desires you'll get ready im- 
mediately, madam. The horses are putting 
to. Your hat and things are in the next room. 
We are to go thirty miles before morning. 495 

[Exit Servant. 

Miss Nev. Well, well; I'll come presently. 

Marl. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, 
to assist in rendering me ridiculous ? To hang me 
out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend 
upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 500 

Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that 
subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to 
the care of another, sir ? 

Miss Nev. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why 



302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act IV 

will you increase my distress by this groundless 505 
dispute ? I implore, I entreat you — 



Enter Servant 

Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is im- 
patient. 

Miss Nev. I come. (Exit Servant.) Pray, be 
pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with ap-510 
prehension ! 

Enter Servant 

Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. 
The horses are waiting. 

Miss Nev. O, Mr. Marlow ! if you knew what 
a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, 515 
I'm sure it would convert your resentment into 
pity. 

Marl. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- 
sions that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, 
madam. George, forgive me. You know my 520 
hasty temper, and should not exasperate it. 

Hast. The torture of my situation is my only 
excuse. 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 303 

Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have 
that esteem for me that I think, that I am sure 525 
you have, your constancy for three years will but 
increase the happiness of our future connexion. 
!£-• 

Mrs. Hard. (Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, 
why, Constance, I say. 530 

Miss Nev. I'm coming. Well, constancy, re- 
member, constancy is the word. 

[Exit, followed by the Servant. 

Hast. My heart ! how can I support this ! To 
be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Marl. {To Tony.) You see now, young gentle- 535 
man, "the effects of your folly. What might be 
amusement to you is here disappointment, and even 
distress. 

Tony. (From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it. 
It's here. Your hands. Yours, and yours, my 540 
poor Sulky. My boots there, ho ! — Meet me, two 
hours hence at the bottom of the garden; and if 
you don't find Tony Lumpkin a more good-natured 
fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave to 
take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bar- 545 
gain. Come along. My boots, ho 1 [Exeunt. 



304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

ACT THE FIFTH 

Scene [I]. — Continues 
Enter Hastings and Servant 

Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
drive off, you say? 

Serv. Yes, your honour. They went off in a 
post-coach, and the young 'Squire went on horse- 
back. They're thirty miles off by this time. 5 

Hast. Then all my hopes are over. 

Serv. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
and the old gentleman of the house have been laugh- 
ing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They 
are coming this way. 10 

Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my 
fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
This is about the time. [Exit. 

Enter Sir Charles and Hardcastle 

Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in 
which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 15 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 305 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I sup- 
pose he treated all your advances. 

Hard. And yet he might have seen something in 
me above a common innkeeper, too. 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for 20 
an uncommon innkeeper; ha! ha! ha! 

Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of 
anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union 
of our families will make our personal friendships 
hereditary; and though my daughter's fortune is 25 
but small — 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
to me? My son is possessed of more than a com- 
petence already, and can want nothing but a good 
and virtuous girl to share his happiness and in- 30 
crease it. If they like each other, as you say they 
do — 

Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like 
each other. My daughter as good as told me 
so. 35 

Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter them- 
selves, you know. 

Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warm- 
est manner myself ; and here he comes to put you 
out of your ifs, I warrant him. 4° 

X 



306 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Enter Marlow 

Marl. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for 
my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my . 
insolence without confusion. 

Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my 45 
daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never 
like you the worse for it. 

Marl. Sir, I shall be always proud of her ap- 
probation. 

Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 50 
Marlow; if I am not deceived, you have something 
more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 

Marl. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 

Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know 
what's what as well as you that are younger. I 55 
know what has past between you ; but mum. 

Marl. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us 
but the most profound respect on my side, and the 
most distant reserve on hers. You don't think, 
sir, that my impudence has been past upon all the 60 
rest of the family ? 

Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — 
not quite impudence — though girls like to be 



d 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 307 

played with, and rumpled a little, too, sometimes. 
But she has told no tales, I assure you. 65 

Marl. I never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
well enough. But this is over-acting, young gen- 
tleman. You may be open. Your father and I 
will like you the better for it. 70 

Marl. May I die, sir, if I ever — 

Hard. I tell you she don't dislike you; and as 
I'm sure you like her — 

Marl. Dear sir — I protest, sir — 

Hard. I see no reason why you should not be 75 
joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Marl. But hear me, sir — 

Hard. Your father approves the match, I ad- ' 
mire it; every moment's delay will be doing mis- 
chief, so — 80 

Marl. But why won't you hear me? By all 
that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle 
the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the 
most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We 
had but one interview, and that was formal, modest, 85 
and uninteresting. 

Hard. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 



1 



308 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
made an}^ protestations ? 9° 

Marl. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
in obedience to your commands. I saw the lady ' 
without emotion, and parted without reluctance. 
I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, 
nor prevent me from leaving a house in which I 95 
suffer so many mortifications. [Exit. 

Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sin- 
cerity with which he parted. 

Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate 
intrepidity of his assurance. 100 

Sir Charles. 1 dare pledge my life and honour 
upon his truth. 

Hard. Here comes mj^ daughter, and I would 
stake my happiness upon her veracity. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle 

Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 105 
sincerely, and without reserve: has Mr. Marlow 
made you any professions of love and affection ? 

Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir ! 
But since you require unreserved sincerity, I think 
he has. "o 



Scene I] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 309 

Hard. (To Sir Charles.) You see. 

Sir Charles. And, pray, madam, have you and 
my son had more than one interview ? 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 

Hard. (I'd Sir Charles.) You see. 115 

Sir Charles. But did he profess any attach- 
ment ? 

Miss Hard. A lasting one. 

Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 

Miss Hard. Much, sir. 120 

Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 

Miss Hard. Formally. 

Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 

Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam? 

Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do : 125 
said some civil things of my face, talked much of 
his want of merit, and the greatness of mine; men- 
tioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and 
ended with pretended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, in- 130 
deed. I know his conversation among women to 
be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, 
ranting manner by no means describes him; and, 
I am confident, he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince 135 



310 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and my 
papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 
behind that screen, you shall hear him declare hisj 
passion to me in person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what 140] 
you describe, all my happiness in him must have 
an end. [Exit. 

Miss Hard. And if you don't find him what I 
describe — I fear my happiness must never have 
a beginning. [Exeunt. 145^ 

Scene [II]. — Changes to the Back of the Garden] 

Enter Hastings 

Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a 
fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying 
me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll 
wait no longer. What do I see ? It is he ! and 
perhaps with news of my Constance. 5 

Enter Tony, hooted and spattered 

Hast. . My honest 'Squire ! I now find you a 
man of your word. This looks like friendship. 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 311 

Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend 
you have in the worid, if you knew but all. This 
riding by night, by the bye, is cursedly tiresome. lo 
It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage- 
coach. 

Hast. But how? Where did you leave your 
fellow-travellers? Are they in safety? Are they 
housed ? 15 

Tony. Five-and- twenty miles in two hours and 
a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts 
have smoked for it : rabbet° me, but I'd rather ride 
forty miles after a fox, than ten with such varment. 

Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? 20 
I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ? Why, where should I leave 
them but where I found them ? 

HoM. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 25 
round the house, and round the house, and never 
touches the house ? 

Hast. I'm still astray. 

Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them 
astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough 30 
within five miles of the place but they can tell the 
taste of. 



312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Hast. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took 
them in a round while they supposed themselves 
going forward, and so you have at last brought 35 
them home again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. 
I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up- 
and-down Hill. I then introduced them to the 40 
gibbet on Heavy-tree Heath; and from that, with 
a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse- 
pond at the bottom of the garden. 

Hast. But no accident, I hope ? 

Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly 45 
frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. 
She's sick of the journey; and the cattle can scarce 
crawl. So, if your own horses be ready, you may 
whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul 
here can budge a foot to follow you. 50 

Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grate- 
ful? 

Tony. Ay, now it's "dear friend," ''noble 
'Squire." Just now, it was all ''idiot," "cub,"- 
and run me through the guts. Damn your way of 55 
fighting, I say. After we take a knock in this part 
of the country, we kiss and be friends. But if you 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 313 

had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, 
and you might go kiss the hangman. 

Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten 60 
to reheve Miss Neville: if you keep the old lady 
employed, I promise to take care of the young 
one. 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes; van- 
ish. {Exit Hastings.) She's got from the pond, 65 
and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle 

Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook ! 
Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That 
last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, 
has done my business. 70 

Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. 
You would be for running away by night, without 
knowing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hard. I wish we were at home again. I 
never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 75 
Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck 
fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose 
our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, 
Tony? 



314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack- 80 
skull Common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hard. O lud ! O lud ! The most noto- 
rious spot in all the country. We only want a rob- ' 
bery to make a complete night on't. 

Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. 85 
Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the 
other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. — 
Is that a man that's galloping behind us ? No ; it's 
only a tree. — Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 90 

Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat 
moving behind the thicket? 

Mrs. Hard. Oh, death ! 

Tony. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
mamma, don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah, I am sure on't. If he 
perceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's 
unlucky come to take one of his night walks. (To 100 
her.) Ah, it's a highwayman, with pistols as long " j 
as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow ! f 

Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven, defend us ! He 
approaches. ' 



Scene II] SHE STOOFS TO CONQUER 315 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 105 
leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, 
I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure 
to keep close. 

[Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in 
the hack scene. 

Enter Hardcastle 

Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of peo- 
ple in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I no 
did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother 
and her charge in safety ? 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. 
Hem. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Ah, death ! I find 115 
there's danger. 

Hard. Forty miles in three hours; sure that's 
too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make 
short journeys, as they say. Hem. 120 

Mrs. Hard. (From behind.) Sure, he'll do the 
dear boy no harm. 

Hard. But I heard a voice here; I should be 
glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 125 



316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

saying that forty miles in four hours was very . 
good going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. 
I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. 
We'll go in, if you please. Hem. 

Hard. But if j^ou talked to yourself, you did 130 
not answer yourself. I'm certain I heard two 
voices, and am resolved {raising his voice) to find 
the other out. 

Mrs. Hard. {From behind.) Oh I he's coming 
to find me out. Oh ! 135 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you? 
Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem 
— I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him. 

Hard. I tell you I will not be detained. I in- 
sist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe 140 
you. 

Mrs. Hard. {Running forward from behind.) O 
lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, 
good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take 
my money, my life, but spare -that young gentle- 145 
man ; spare my child, if you have any mercy. 

Hard. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From . 
whence can she come? or what does she mean? 

Mrs. Hard. {Kneeling.) Take compassion on 
us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our 150 



Scene II] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 317 

watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will 
never bring you to justice; indeed we won't, good 
Mr. Highwayman. 

Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
What, Dorothy, don't you know mef 155 

Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My 
fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have 
expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, 
so far from home? What has brought you to fol- 
low us? 160 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits? So far from home, when you are within 
forty yards of your own door ! {To him.) This 
is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you ! 
{To her.) Don't you know the gate and the mul- 165 
berry tree; and don't you remember the horse- 
pond, my dear? 

Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live; I have caught my death in 
it. {To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless 170 
varlet, I owe all this ? I'll teach you to abuse your 
mother, I will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you 
have spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits 
on't. 175 



318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Mrs. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. 

[Follows him off the stage. 
Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. 

[Exit. . 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville 

Hast. My dear Constance, why will you delib- 
erate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost for- 
ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall 180 
soon be out of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I 
am unable to face any new danger. Two or three 
years' patience will at last crown us with happi- 185 
ness. 

Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
stancy. Let us fly, my charmer. Let us date our 
happiness from this very moment. Perish for- 
tune. Love and content will increase what we 190 
possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me 
prevail ! 

Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence 
once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its 
dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may 195 



I 
I 



Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 319 

be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repent- 
ance. I'm resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's 
compassion and justice for redress. 

Hast. But though he had the will, he has not 
the power to relieve you. 200 

Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that 
I am resolved to rely. 

Hast. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, 
I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt. 

Scene [III]. — Changes: Room at Mr. Hardcastle's 

Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss Hard- 
castle 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If 
what you say appears, I shall then find a guilty 
son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one 
that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hard. I am proud of your approbation; 5 
and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as 
I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. 
But he comes. 

Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him 
to the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 10 



320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Enter Marlow 

Marl. Though prepared for setting out, I come 
once more to take leave; nor did I, till this mo- 
ment, know the pain I feel in the separation. 

Miss Hard. {In her own natural manner.) I 
believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, 15 
which you can so easily remove. A day or two 
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
showing the little value of what you now think 
proper to regret. 

Marl. {Aside.) This girl every moment im- 20 
proves upon me. {To her.) It must not be, 
madam; I have already trifled too long with my 
heart. My very pride begins to submit to my pas- 
sion. The disparity of education and fortune, the 
anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals 25 
begin to lose their weight ; and nothing can restore 
me to myself but this painful effort of resolution. 

Miss Hard. Then go, sir: I'll urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as 
good as her's you came down to visit, and my edu- 30- 
cation, I hope, not inferior, what are these advan- 
tages without equal affluence? I must remain 
contented with the slight approbation of imputed 



Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 321 

merit; I must have only the mockery of your ad- 
dresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on 35 
fortune. 



Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow 
from behind 

Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 

Hard. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my 
Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Marl. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever 40 
my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first 
caught my eye; for who could see that without 
emotion? But every moment that I converse 
with you steals in some new grace, heightens the 
picture, and gives it stronger expression. What 45 
at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears re- 
fined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, 
now strikes me as the result of courageous inno- 
cence and conscious virtue. 

Sir Charles. What can it mean? He amazes 50 
me! 

Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 

Marl. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- 



322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approba- 55 
tion. 

Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot 
detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connex- . 
ion in which there is the smallest room for repent- 
ance? Do you think I would take the mean 60 
advantage of a transient passion to load you with 
confusion ? Do you think I could ever relish that 
happiness which was acquired by lessening yours ? 

Marl. By all that's good, I can have no happi- 
ness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor 65 
shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen 
your merits before. I will stay even contrary to 
your wishes; and though you should persist to 
shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities 
atone for the levity of my past conduct. 70 

Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indif- 
ference. I might have given an hour or two to 
levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I 
could ever submit to a connexion where I must 75 
appear mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you • 
think I could ever catch at the confident addresses 
of a secure admirer ? 

Marl. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security ! 



Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 323 

Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every 80 
moment that shows me your merit, only serves to 
increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me 
continue — 

Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your 85 
indifference, your uninteresting conversation? 

Hard. Your cold contempt: your formal inter- 
view ! What have you to say now ? 

Marl. That I'm all amazement ! What can it 
mean ? 90 

Hard. It means that you can say and unsay 
things at pleasure; that you can address a lady 
in private, and deny it in public; that you have 
one story for us, and another for my daughter. 

Marl. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? 95 

Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; 
whose else should she be ? 

Marl. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
squinting lady you were pleased to take me for 100 
(ciirtesying) ; she that you addressed as the mild, 
modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, 
forward, agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club. 
Ha! ha! ha! 



324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

Marl. Zounds, there's no bearing this; it's 105 
worse than death ! 

Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, 
will you give us leave to address you ? As the fal- • 
tering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that 
speaks just to be heard, and hates hypo^jrisy; or no 
the loud, confident creature, that keeps it up with 
Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till 
three in the morning ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Marl. O, curse on my noisy head. I never 
attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken 115 
down. I must be gone. 

Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced 
to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know 
she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? 120 
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 

[They retire, she tormenting him, to the hack scene. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony 

Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them 
go, I care not. 

Hard. Who gone? 

Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentle- 125 



Scene III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 325 

man, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came 
down with our modest visitor here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? 
As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not 
have made a mo^re prudent choice. 130 

Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
proud of the connexion. 

Mrs. Hard. . Well, if he has taken away the 
lady, he has not taken her fortune; that remains 
in this family to console us for her loss. 135 

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mer- 
cenary ? 

Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 
But, you know, if your son, when of age, refuses to 
marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her 140 
own disposal. 

Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not 
thought proper to wait for his refusal. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville 

Mrs. Hard. (Aside.) What, returned so soon ! 
I begin not to like it. 145 

Hast. (To Hardcastle.) For my late attempt 
to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion 



326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

be my punishment. We are now come back, to 
appeal from your justice to your humanity. By 
her father's consent, I first paid her my addresses, 150 
and our passions were first founded in duty. 

Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obhged 
to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In 
an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my 
fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recov- 155 
ered from the delusion, and hope from your tender- 
ness what is denied me from a nearer connexion. 

Mrs. Hard. Pshaw, pshaw, this is all but the 
whining end of a modern novel ! 

Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come 160 
back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, 
boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now 
offer you ? 

Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know 
I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 165 

Hard. While I thought concealing your age, 
boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, 
I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it 
secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, 
I must now declare you have been of age these 170 
three months. 

Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 



4 



ScteNE III] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 327 

Hard. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of 
my liberty. (T^a/brng Miss Neville's /iant?.) Wit- 175 
ness all men, by these presents, that I, Anthony 
Lumpkin, Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Con- 
stantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my 
true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville may 
marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is 180 
his own man again. 

Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire ! 

Hast. My worthy friend ! 

Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring ! 

Marl. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 185 
cerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant 
here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest 
man alive, if you would return me the favour. 

Hast. {To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, madam, 
you are now driven to the very last scene of all 190 
your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure 
he loves you, and you must and shall have him. 

Hard. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. 
And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as 
she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever re- 195 
pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-mor- 
row we shall gather all the poor of the parish about 



328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER [Act V 

US, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned 
with a merry morning. So, boy, take her; and as 
you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish 200 
is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. . 

[Exeunt Omnes. 



EPILOGUE 

BY DR. GOLDSMITH, SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY IN THE 
CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE 

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, 

And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 

Still as a bar-maid, I could wish it too. 

As I have conquered him to conquer you : 

And let me say, for all your resolution, 5 

That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 

Our life is all a play, composed to please; 

"We have our exits and our entrances.'' 

The first act shows the simple country maid. 

Harmless and young, of everything afraid; lo 

Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, 

''I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.'' 

Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 

Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn. 

Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 15 

Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 

329 



330 EPILOGUE 

Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 

The chop-house toast of ogHng connoisseurs ; 

On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts, 

And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; 2p 

And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 

E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. 

The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire, 

And madam now begins to hold it higher; 

Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro, 25 

And quits her Nancy Dawson° for Che Faro° : 

Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride. 

Swims round the room, the Heinel° of Cheapside : 

Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 

Till having lost in age the power to kill, 30 

She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.° 

Such, through our lives, th' eventful history — 

The fifth and last act still remains for me. 

The bar-maid now for your protection prays. 

Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes.° 35 



s 



NOTES 

THE DESEETED VILLAGE 

This idyllic pastoral, after receiving two years of careful re- 
vision, was published May 26, 1770. The poem pulsates far 
more strongly with romanticism than The Traveller. The he- 
roic couplets of Pope and Johnson lose their mechanical click 
as they are oiled by the feeling of aspiration and longing. The 
monotonous metre responds to soul-rhythm by being forced to 
sustain fine descriptions of nature, excellence in character-por- 
trayal, and vibratory warmth of an emotion which is genuine. 
The classic form is almost a concealed quantity, except in the 
polish of diction and in the rhyme that is for the most part for- 
gotten ; and its romantic pathos and ideal beauty will always 
remain the despair of posterity to understand or to reproduce. 
Pope and Johnson would have wrecked the theme by their me- 
chanics, and no poet of the Romantic Period, with the excep- 
tion of Cowper, ever grafted such a blossoming branch on the 
stump of classicism. 

If one throws aside Goldsmith's economic theories and didac- 
ticism, the pastoral remains the most genuinely charming mas- 
terpiece among all the English lyrics. The poet is sensitive to 
pain and melancholy in all his lines by reason of a heart still 

331 



332 NOTES [Page 5 

broken by the remembrance of the loss of a brother he loved 
so well. 

It is no wonder that Gray, after reading the poem, said, 
" This man is a poet ; " and that Burke exclaimed, " What true 
and pretty pastoral images ! They beat all — Pope, and Phil- 
ips, and Spenser too. ..." 

Johnson's London was Goldsmith's model for form and metre, 
but in the great originality of The Deserted Village it is scarcely 
traceable. 

1. Auburn. "It is generally believed that by 'Auburn' he 
intended to designate his native village, Lissoy, in Ireland, and 
that Gen. Robert Napier was the depopulator of this unfor- 
tunate parish. Lissoy is about seven Irish miles distant from 
Athlone ; Pallas is a small estate about ten miles from Lissoy. 
. . . He (Napier) enclosed a domain of nine miles in circum- 
ference, in which were included three respectable families . . . 
with all their tenants and dependants. Upon the general's 
death his house was robbed by the indignant peasants, and all 
his woods cut down." — Mitford, Pickering, 1839. 

12. The decent church. According to Dr. Strean, curate of 
Kilkenny West in 1807, the scenery depicted here is an exact 
reproduction of that near Lissoy. Scott, however, is inclined 
to think most of it fanciful. 

13. The hawthorn bush. As far as imagery and rhyme are 
concerned, the following couplets from Milton and Burns are 
recalled : — 

" And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale." 

— U Allegro, m-Q%. 



Pages 5-7] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 333 

"In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale ! " 
— The Cotter's Saturdaij Night, 80-81. 

17. the village train. Cf, Burns''s The Cotter''s Saturday 
Night, 5-7 : — 

' ' To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways . . ." 

25. The dancing pair. Cf. Milton's L' Allegro, 95-96 : — 

" To many a youth and many a maid 
Dancing in the checkered shade ..." 

The whole passage, 20-30, is a reminiscence of i' Allegro im- 
agery and of 250-254 in The Traveller. 

51. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. This line 
seems to have been made harsh in sound to fit the sense. 

53. Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade, etc. Cf. 
Burns's The Cotter'' s Saturday Night, 165 : — 

"Princes and lords are hut the breath of kings ..." 

Burns was greatly indebted to The Deserted Village, 51-68, for 
much of his imagery used in The Cotter'' s Saturday Night. 
Goldsmith was indebted to Johnson's London, 1738, for the 
central idea of lines 51-68. 

" This mournful truth is ev'rywhere confess'd, 
Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed; 
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold. 
Where looks are merchandise and smiles are sold ; 
Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, 
The groom retails the favours ot his lord." 



334 NOTES [Pages 7-8 

55. a bold peasantry. Goldsmith in The Vicar of Wakefield 
had already quoted Pope's "An honest man's the noblest work 
of God," and in the same place in the novel had said, "The 
ignorant peasant without fault is greater than the philosopher 
with many." 

57. England's griefs. Note the skilful transfer of his affec- 
tion and allegiance from Ireland to England, in patriotic de- 
fence of which Goldsmith ever uplifted pen in poetry and prose. 

68. And every pang that folly pays to pride. Of. The Citi- 
zen of the World: "... misery is artificial, and generally 
proceeds from our folly." 

74. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Note the 
alliteration which is prominent everywhere in the poem. How- 
ever, it is not used so artificially or frequently as in The Trav- 
eller^ where it seems to be quite overdone. 

79. return to view. Goldsmith, after 1752, never did return 
to view the landscape of Westmeath. In a letter written to his 
brother-in-law, Hodson, on December 27, 1757, he had ex- 
pressed a similar pathos: "This it is that gives me all the 
pangs I feel in separation. ... If I go to the opera, where 
Signora Columba pours out all the mazes of melody, I sit and 
sigh for Lissoy fireside, and Johnny Armstrong's last good 
night from Peggy Golden. If I climb Flanstead Hill, than 
where nature never exhibited a more magnificent prospect, I 
confess it fine, but then I had rather be placed on the Little 
Mount before Lissoy gate, and there take in, to me, the most 
pleasing horizon in nature." 

83. In all my wanderings. What line in Tlie Traveller is 
exactly similar in sentiment ? 



Pages 8-9] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 335 

84. In all my griefs. He is probably referring to his har- 
rowing experiences as a hack-writer when pushing ahead for 
recognition in London from 1756-1759. To his brother, Henry, 
in 1759, he had written : " Take my present follies as instances 
of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable species 
of composition than prose ; and could a man live by it, it were 
no unpleasant employment to be a poet." 

85. I still had hopes. We are reminded of his phrase in Tlie 
Vicar of Wakefield: "No person ever had a better knack at 
hoping than I." 

94. Pants to the place from whence at first she flew. 

Wordsworth makes use of this same idea in Hart-Leap Well, 

where the stag runs for thirteen hours to die on the spot of its 

birth : — 

( 
' ' In April here beneath the flowering thorn 

He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 

And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 

Not half a furlong from that self-same spring." 

96. and die at home at last. Goldsmith had written in The 
Citizen of the World: "There is something so seducing in that 
spot in which we first had existence that nothing but it can 
please. Whatever vicissitudes we experience in life, however 
we toil, or wheresoever we wander, our fatigued wishes still 
recur to home for tranquillity ; we long to die in that spot 
which gave us birth, and in that pleasing expectation find an 
opiate for every calamity." 

And Irving expresses the same thought at the close of his 
Stratford-on-Avon : "He who has sought renown about the 



336 NOTES [Pages 9-10 

world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will 
find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, 
so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. 
It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor 
among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary 
heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of 
life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the 
mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his 
childhood." 

Was Goldsmith merely indulging in fabricated or fatuous 
sentiment when he wrote these finest lines of all his poetry — 
lines that are filled with the infinite longing which he had ever 
tugging at his heartstrings through all that ill-fated life of 
his? 

102. learns to fly. Mitford calls attention to these lines in 
The Bee: "By struggling with misfortunes we are sure to re- 
ceive some wound in the conflict ; the only method to come off 
victorious is by running away." 

105. surly porter. "I never see a nobleman's door half 
opened, that some surly porter or footman does not stand full in 
the breach." — The Citizen of the World. 

110. resignation. " Sir Joshua Reynolds painted a particu- 
larly fine picture in point of expression, especially of Resigna- 
tion, and dedicated the print taken from it to Dr. Goldsmith, 
with some lines under it quoted from the ' Deserted Village.' 
This seems to have been done by Sir Joshua as a return of the 
compliment to Goldsmith, who had dedicated the poem to 
him." — Northcote's Life of Eeynolds. 

124. the nightingale. Has Goldsmith used any of the im- 



Pages 10-11] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 337 

agery employed by Milton, Collins, and Gray, in describing an 
evening ? See II Penseroso, Ode to Evening, and Elegy Writ- 
ten in a Country Churchyard. 

126. fluctuate. Tliis is a word as odious to the ear as " ■yer- 
dant,''^ so constantly used in Pope's lines. Goldsmith seemed 
to think it classically felicitous and admirable in its efficacy, 
and quotes in Essay XVI. these lines from Armstrong: — 

" Oh ! when the growling winds contend, and all 
The sounding forest y^wc^wa^es in the storm ..." 

136. The sad historian. The " wretched matron " is not an 
imaginary character. We all remember Goody Blake and the 
leech-gatherer in the poetry of Wordsworth. ■ 

140. The village preacher. Probably Goldsmith had in mind 
the character-attributes of his father and brother Henry when 
he created a being second only to Chaucer's parish priest. 

142. forty pounds a year. See Dedication of The Traveller, 
1. 12. [Referring to his brother.] 

145. Unpractis'd he to fawn. "... the man who can 
thank himself alone for the happiness he enjoys is truly blest ; 
and lovely, far more lovely, the sturdy gloom of laborious indi- 
gence than the fawning simper of thriving adulation." — The 
Citizen of the Woi^ld, C. 

155. The broken soldier. Read Letter CXIX., in The Citizen 
of the World, which tells of the distresses of a disabled soldier, 
and ends with this characteristic aphorism, "an habitual 
acquaintance with misery is the truest school of fortitude and 
philosophy." 

162. His pity gave. In The Citizen of the World read Letter 



338 NOTES [Pages 11-12 

XXVI., where the Man in Black first gave his sympathy and 
then his all to the sailor and to the woman who, in rags, with a 
child in her arms and another on her back, was singing ballads 
with peculiar pathos. This shows how often Goldsmith's 
purse was emptied, not only in Ireland, but also in England ; it 
shows that his whole life was lived according to the charity and 
hospitality advocated in his prose and poetry, for Dr. Primrose, 
the Man in Black, and the preacher, are one shadow, namely 
that cast by his own good-natured, tender-hearted, generous 
self. 

170. led the way. Cf. Chaucer's Prologue: — 

"But Cristas lore, and his Apostles twelve 
He taughte, but first he folwed it himselve." 

189. As some tall cliff. This grand simile conveys the 
curate's position in the material and moral world of Auburn. 
It is accurate in description of mountain scenery, and shows 
that in spite of his age, which hampered any admiration for 
such, Goldsmith sincerely loved Nature in wrath and wildness. 
This description had been anticipated in touches of romanticism 
by Young in his Night Thoughts : — 

" As some tall tower, or lofty mountain's brow 
Detains the sun, illustrious from its heights, 
While rising vapors and descending shades, 
With damps and darkness drown the spacious vale, 
Philander thus augustly rears his head." 

Cf. Goldsmith's Essay III. : "At the foot of the mountain an 
extensive lake displayed its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad 
surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capa- 



Pages 13-14] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 339 

cioiis mirror he would sometimes descend, and, reclining on its 
steep banks, cast an eager look on the smooth expanse that lay 
before him. ' How beautiful, ' he often cried, 'is Nature ! how 
lovely even in her wildest scenes ! How finely contrasted is 
the level plain that lies beneath me with yon awful pile that 
hides its tremendous head in clouds ! ' " 

196. The village master. The teacher of Goldsmith was 
Thomas Byrne. Goldsmith's preacher and teacher in their 
mental traits form types as excellent in their portrayal as those 
which can be selected from Chaucer's Prologue. 

227. The white-wash'd wall. Cf. Goldsmith's Description 
of an Author'' s Bed-chamber : — 

" A window, patched with paper, lent a ray 
That dimly showed the state in which he lay ; 
The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread, 
The humid wall, with paltry pictures spread ; 
The royal game of goose was there in view. 
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew. 
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place. 
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face; 
The morn was cold, — he views with keen desire 
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire. 
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board." 

The above lines slightly altered were originally composed in a 
letter written to his brother, Henry, in 1759, and were after- 
ward enlarged upon and inserted in The Citizen of the World, 
Letter XXX. He was perhaps describing his dingy room in 
Green Arbor Court. 



340 ' NOTES [Pages 14-16 

232. The twelve good rules. Hales in his Longer English 
Poems states that these rules were : 1 . Urge no healths. 
2. Profane no divine ordinances. 3. Touch no state matters. 
4. Reveal no secrets. 5. Pick no quarrels. 6. Make no com- 
panions. 7. Maintain no ill opinion. 8. Keep no bad conl- 
pany. 9. Encourage no vice. 10. Make no long meals. 
11. Repeat no grievances. 12. Lay no wagers. 

232. the royal game of goose. Rolfe refers us to Strutt's 
Sports and Pastimes, IV., 2 (XXV.): "It is played upon a 
board with sixty-two compartments, and is called the game of 
goose because at every fourth and fifth compartment in succes- 
sion a goose was depicted ; and if the cast thrown by the player 
falls upon a goose, he moves forward double the number of his 
throw." 

269. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
Cf. Thomson's Liberty : — 

" However puffed with power and gorged with wealth 
A nation be; let trade- enormous rise, 
Let East and South their mingled treasure pour, 
Till, swell'd impetuous, the corrupting flood 
Burst o'er the city and devour the land." 

— Cited by Tupper. 

Thus we see that the poet, Thomson, in 1734, anticipated 
Goldsmith, who erroneously believed that trade made England 1 
a splendid but an unhappy land, since by it the poor were ' 
made to pay higher prices for the simple necessaries of life that 
were still the same. The rich having become richer, in order • 
to gratify luxurious tastes, desired to enlarge their estates by 



Pages 16-17] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 341 

seizing the domains of tlie small landholders. These small 
farms were the sole means of producing the necessaries of life 
which enabled poor freeholders to keep themselves from the 
misery consequent to unfair, forced competition with capital or 
trust. And by being forced to give up their small farms, the 
country folk were compelled to emigrate ; therefore, England 
was being fast depopulated. 

294. In all the glaring impotence of dress. Kead The Bee, 
II., On Dress. The observations made by Cousin Hannah to 
Cousin Jeffrey are very amusing as well as instructive. They 
are in the Park and she says : " There goes Mrs. Roundabout — 
I mean the fat lady in the lute-string trollopee. Between you 
and I, she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, as fine 
as hands and pins can make her, while her two marriageable 
daughters, like hunters in stuff gowns, are now taking six penny 
worth of tea at the White Conduit House. Odious puss ! how 
she waddles along, with her train two yards behind her ! She 
puts me in mind of my Lord Bantam's Indian sheep, which are 
obliged to have their monstrous tails trundled along in a go- 
cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's heart to see 
four yards of good lute-string wearing against the ground, like 
one of his knives on a grindstone." 

305. common's fenceless limits. We know that seven hun- 
dred Enclosure Acts were passed from 1760 to 1774. According 
to Hales the poet ignored "the fact that 'half a tillage stinted 
the plains' [1. 40], where the old Commons lay extended. If 
the enclosure were made without proper compensation to the 
Commoners, then assuredly nothing can be more shame- 
ful." 



342 NOTES [Pages 17-18 

Goldsmith assumed that all lands which were secured by the 
rich were kept for parks or remained uncultivated, 

321. Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. This 
is a very finely phrased line that recalls Johnson's London : — 

• 

"But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries 
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies. . . . 

******* 
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way, 
Flush'd as they are, with folly, youth, and wine, 
Their prudent insults to the poor confine ; 
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach, 
And shun the shining train, and golden coach." 

326. the poor houseless shivering female. The reader should 
by all means read The City Night-Piece in The Bee, IV. to un- 
derstand how Goldsmith used its material in padding out 326- 
336. 

" Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of 
wretches I cannot relieve ! Poor houseless creatures ! the world 
will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. 

"Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensi- 
bility? or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse ?" 

Goldsmith in 326-380 anticipates Burns's The Cotter'' s Satur- 
day Night, 82-90, and To a Mountain Daisy, 31-36, and Hood's 
The Bridge of Sighs. 

330. Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. This 
is as fine a line as "the rathe primrose that forsaken dies" 
of Milton's, or any expressed by Shakspere in adoration of the 
flower : — 



Pages 18-19] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 343 

"... pale primroses 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady 
Most incident to maids. ..." 

In The Citizen of the Worlds Letter XCV., Goldsmith shows 
his great love for Nature by writing : " . . . tb him a parterre 
of flowers is the famous valley of gold ; to him a little brook 
the fountain of the young peach-trees ; to such a man the 
melody of birds is more ravishing than the harmony of a full 
concert ; and the tincture of the cloud preferable to the touch 
of the finest pencil." 

Line 330 makes us cry out, Would that Goldsmith had written 
The Deserted Village thirty years later with no restrictions im- 
posed by the models set by his contemporaries ! 

340. they ask a little bread. The simple folk were not 
guilty of "aspiring beggary," which according to Goldsmith 
" is wretchedness itself." 

341. To distant climes. Goldsmith's idea of emigration must 
have been inspired by these lines from Johnson's London : — 

*' Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, 
No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore? 
No secret island in the boundless main ? 
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain? 

******* 
Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 
For where can starving merit find a home ? " 

344. Altama. The Altamaha, a river in Georgia. 

345. Far different there. Hales states : "He [Goldsmith] 



344 NOTES [Pages 19-21 

knows not, or he ignores, the happier side of the exile's pros- 
pects. He cannot fancy his hearth blazing as brightly on the 
other shore of the Atlantic as in the old country, or picture 
any 'smiling village' there with gay swains and coy-glancing 
maidens." Has this sentiment been expressed anywhere in 
The Traveller ? ' 

355. Where crouching tigers. Goldsmith not only places 
tigers in Georgia and Canada, but also in England. Cf. The 
Citizen of the Worlds Letter CVI. : " . . . and the very tigers 
start from the forest with sym]3athetic concern." 

389. to sickly greatness grown. Cf. The Traveller^ note on 
144. 

396. business of destruction done. Cf. The Citizen of the 
Worlds Letter XXV.: "... colonies, by draining away the 
brave and enterprising, leave the country in the hands of 
the timid and avaricious." 

According to Goldsmith the villagers take with them six vir- 
tues, and leave behind the seven deadly sins ; and they, who 
are termed refuse by the rich, are composed of ' ' the laborious 
and enterprising — of such men as can be serviceable to their 
country at home — of men who ought to be regarded as the 
sinews of the people, and cherished with every degree of polit- 
ical indulgence." 

407. sweet poetry. Goldsmith's definitions of poetry are 
excellent, and bear quoting, such as : ". . . if we consider 
poetry as an elevation of natural dialogue, as a delightful 
vehicle for conveying the noblest sentiments of heroism and 
patriot virtue, to regale the sense with the sounds of musical 
expression, while the fancj' is ravished with enchanting images, 



Page 21] THE DESERTED VILLAGE 345 

and the heart warmed to rapture and ecstasy, we must allow 
that poetry is a perfection to which nature would gladly 
aspire ..." and, "It is a species of painting with words, in 
which the figures are happily conceived, ingeniously arranged, 
affectingly expressed, and recommended with all the warmth 
and harmony of colouring : it consists of imagery, description, 
metaphors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with propriety to 
the subject, so contrived and executed as to soothe the ear, sur- 
prise and delight the fancy, mend and melt the heart, elevate 
the mind, and please the understanding." 

409. in these degenerate times. Eour years before the pub- 
lication of this poem, Goldsmith had written in The Vicar of 
Wakefield: " English poetry, like that in the latter empire of 
Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant 
images, without plot or connection — a string of epithets that 
improve the sound without carrying on the sense." Since 
Dodsley had published the quarto of February, 1751, little 
had been done in making true poetry, with the exception of 
Gray's The Progress of Poesy and The Bard. 

410. To catch the heart. This is just what Goldsmith's 
poetry does, and precisely what that of his contemporaries does 
not. In Tlie Citizen of the World he writes : " In a word, the 
great faults of the modern professed English poets are, that 
they seem to want numbers which should vary with the passion, 
and are more employed in describing to the imagination than 
striking at the heart." 

412. My shame in crowds. We all know from Boswell con- 
cerning Goldsmith's inability to shine in conversation at the 
Turk's Head in Gerrard Street, Soho. It was Johnson who said 



346 NOTES [Pages 21-26 

of him, "That no man was more foolish when he had not a 
pen in his hand, or more wise when he had." 

414. That found'st me poor at first. In a letter written to 
his brother-in-law, December 27, 1757, he says, " In short, by a 
very little practice as a physician, and a very little reputation 
as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is more apt to intro- 
duce us to the gates of the muses than poverty. . . . Thus, 
upon hearing I write, no doubt you imagine I starve ; and the 
name of an author naturally reminds you of a garret." 

418. Torno. Lake Tornea in north Sweden. 

418. Pambamarca. A mountain near Quito, Ecuador. 

424. Teach. Note the didactic element in Goldsmith's 
poetry. Does it detract from its merits ? 



THE TEAVELLER; OR, A PEOSPECT OF 
SOCIETY 

This excellent bit of modified classicism was published De- 
cember 19, 1764. Goldsmith was indebted for his material to 
Addison's Letter from Italy, 1701, and Johnson's Vanity of 
Htiman Wishes, 1749, with occasional gleanings and aids from 
Thomson and Collins. In the Dedication of the first edition 
the poet thought his poem would please a very small circle^ 
and gave a very satisfactory reason that, since the heart is too 
often wrongly placed, many of his shafts of pathos would fly 
at random. Goldsmith seems to have correctly estimated the 
favor it would meet with the general public ; but, in that small 



Pages 26-27] THE TRAVELLER ■ 347 

circle of which he had spoken, it was at once warmly received. 
As soon as it was published, Johnson in a review pronounced 
its technique so satisfactory that it only remained to discover 
whether Goldsmith was a just estimator of comparative happi- 
ness ; and, after proving this, he tersely said that not since 
Pope had there been anything equal to this masterpiece. Miss 
Reynolds said, " I never more shall think Dr. Goldsmith ugly," 
and her brother said, " I was glad to hear Charles Fox say it 
was one of the finest poems in the English language," which 
remark caused Ursa Major to growl out, "The merit of The 
Traveller is so well established that Mr. Fox's praise cannot 
augment it, nor his censure diminish it." Nor has it lost caste 
through all these years, since all sincere critics join with 
Macaulay in saying: "The execution, though deserving of 
much praise, is far inferior to the design. No philosophic 
poem, ancient or modern, has a plan so noble and at the same 
time so simple. An English wanderer, seated on a crag among 
the Alps, near the point where three great countries meet, 
looks down on the boundless prospect, reviews his long pil- 
grimage, recalls the varieties of scenery, of climate, of govern- 
ment, of religion, of national character, which he has observed, 
and comes to the conclusion, just or unjust, that our happiness 
depends little on political institutions, and much on the temper 
and regulation of our minds." 

1. slow. " Chamier once asked him what he meant by 
'slow,' the last word in the first line of 'The Traveller.' . . . 
Did he mean tardiness of locomotion ? Goldsmith, who would 
say something without consideration, answered, ' Yes. ' I was 
sitting by, and said, ' No, sir ; you do not mean tardiness of 



I 



348 . NOTES [Page 27 

locomotion ; you mean that sluggishness of mind which comes 
upon a man in solitude.' Chamier believed then that I had 
written the line as much as if he had seen me write it." — John- 
son, Boswell's Life of Johnson. The whole line foreshadows 
the tender pathos pervading the poem. 

2. Scheldt. The Scheldt is a river between Holland and 
Belgium. 

3. Carinthian. Carinthia is a province in the western part 
of Austria. 

5. Campania's plain. The Campagna of Kome. 

9. to my brother turns. "I have met with no disappoint- 
ment with respect to my East India voyage, nor are my resolu- 
tions altered ; though, at the same time, I must confess it gives 
me some pain to think I am almost beginning the world at the 
age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's sickness since I 
saw you, yet I am not that strong, active man you once knew 
me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight years of dis- 
appointment, anguish, and study, have worn me down. If I 
remember right, you are seven or eight years older than me, 
yet I dare venture to say, if a stranger saw us both, he would 
pay me the honours of seniority. Imagine to yourself a pale, 
melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles between the eye- 
brows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a bag wig, and you 
may have a perfect picture of my present appearance. . . . 

"I can neither laugh nor drink, have contracted an hesitat- 
ing, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks 
ill-nature itself ; in short, I have brought myself into a settled 
melancholy, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. 
Whence this romantic turn that all our family are possessed 



Pages 27-28] THE TRAVELLER 349 

with ? Whence this love for every place and every country 
but that in which we reside ? For every occupation but our 
own? This desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dis- 
sipate?" — Letter to his brother, Bev. He7iry Goldsmith, at 
Lowjield, near Ballymore, in Westmeath, Ireland, 1759. 

10. a lengthening chain. " The farther I travel, I feel the 
pain of separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind 
me to my native country and you are still unbroken ; by every 
remove I only drag a greater length of chain." — TJie Citizen 
of the World, Letter III. 

Indeed, "interposing trackless deserts" never did blot the 
" reverend figure " of his brother, Henry, from his memory. 

21. press the bashful stranger to his food. Cf. Burns's The 
Cotter'' s Saturday Night, 97: "An' aft he's prest, an' aft he 
ca's it guid. . . ." 

24. My prime of life in wandering spent and care. " When 
will my wanderings be at an end ? When will my restless 
disposition give me leave to enjoy the present hour ? When at 
Lyons, I thought all happiness lay beyond the Alps ; when in 
Italy, I found myself still in want of something, and expected 
to leave solicitude behind me by going into Romelia ; and now 
you find me turning back, still expecting ease everywhere but 
where I am. It is now seven years since I saw the face of a 
single creature who cared a farthing whether I was dead or 
alive." — The Bee, I. A Letter from a Traveller. 

26. Some fleeting good. "If I should judge of that part of 
life which lies before me by that which I have already seen, the 
prospect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my past enjoy- 
ments have brought no real felicity ; and sensation assures me, 



350 NOTES [Pages 28-29 

that those I have felt are stronger than those which are yet to 
come. Yet exijerience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, 
more powerful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in 
fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspective still 
beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every new * 
disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game." — 
The Citizen of the World, Letter LXXIII. 

29. My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. From 1752- 
1756 he was the pilgrim who made the Grand Tour on foot. 
Fate had no post-chaise for him. Think of Gray, Walpole, 
Shelley, and especially Byron, in their continental wanderings. 

41. school-taught. Stoical. 

57. oft a sigh prevails. " Tenderness, without a capacity of 
relieving, only makes the man who feels it more wretched than 
the object which sues for assistance." — Tlie Bee. 

We know according to Irving and Thackeray how generous 
Goldsmith was to the poor, how he relieved the distressed 
woman in the street by giving her his last guinea, and how ever 
his " purse and his heart were everybody's and his friends' as 
much as his own." We often think that, if in fourteen years 
Goldy could throw away £8000, it served him right to die £2000 
in debt ; but in passing this judgment we should take into con- 
sideration the pitiable objects of charity which were ever climb- 
ing Breakneck Stairs of Green Arbor Court, or congregating 
near the Sign of the Broom in Islington, or were shivering in 
the winter storms near the Temple, or strolling along Edgeware 
Road. Much can be forgiven the man, who, at the beginning 
of his literary career, had written, " You know my heart ; and 
that all who are miserable may claim a place there." 



Pages 30-31] THE TRAVELLER 351 

72. And thanks his gods. Cf. Dryden's Alexander'' s Feasts 
88 : " Take the good the gods provide thee." These lines, 69- 
72, were struck off at a white heat of modified classicism. 

81. Nature, a mother kind. Cf. Byron's Childe Harold^ 
Canto II : — 

"Dear Nature is the kindest mother still . . ." 

84. On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side. Idria is a town in 
the mountains of Carniola. It was in a forest on "Arno's 
shelvy side " that Shelley wrote : — 

" Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! " 

— Ode to the West Wind. 

87. art. "... taste is composed of nature improved by 
art. . . .'' —Essay XIL 

91-98. The fine sentiment here is plainly anticipatory of the 
central idea or theme of The Deserted Village. 

103. neglected shrub. Here is romanticism strongly in evi- 
dence. As Gray admired the mountains, so Goldsmith the 
steep ; and, by his notice of the neglected shrub, he becomes a 
forerunner of Burns, who made Mossgiel farm famous by the 
Mountain Daisy : — 

" But thou, beneath the random bield 
O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble field. 
Unseen, alane." 

105. Far to the right, where Apennine ascends. Contrast 
this retouching or unconscious plagiarism of Addisonian mate- 



352 NOTES [Pages 31-33 

rial, 105-122, with Shelley's Lines written among the Euganean 
Hills : — 

" 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, 

When a soft and purple mist 

Like a vaporous amethyst, • 

Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of heaven's profound. 

Fills the overflowing sky ; 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath. . . . 

And the red and golden vines. 
Piercing with their trellised lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
The dun and hladed grass no less, 
Pointing from this hoary tower 
In the windless air ; the flower 
Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 
In the south dimly islanded. ..." 



f 



Carefully note the attitude of English poetry in 1818 toward 
the external world. Compare the vocabulary or diction of 
modified classicism with that of exuberant romanticism. 

144. plethoric. " In short, the state resembled one of those 
bodies bloated with disease, whose bulk is only a symptom of 
its wretchedness ; their former opulence only rendered them 
more impotent." — The Citizen of the World. [Mitford, 
Pickering, 1839.] 



Page 33] THE TRAVELLER 353 

150. The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade. Goldsmith 
explains such in III. of The Present State of Polite Learn- 
ing, when he says of Italy: "Happy country . . . where the 
wits even of Rome are united into a rural group of nymphs and 
swains, under the appellation of modern Arcadians ; where in 
the midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned 
shepherds, and shepherdesses without sheep indulge their inno- 
cent diver timenti.'''' [Mitford, Pickering, 1839.] 

154. The sports of children satisfy the child. The reader 
will find the following anecdote interesting in throwing light on 
the couplet, 153-154. 

" Either Reynolds, or a mutual friend who immediately com- 
municated the story to him, called at the lodgings of the Poet, 
opened the door without ceremony, and discovered him, not in 
meditation, or in the throes of poetic birth, but in the boyish 
office of teaching a favourite dog to sit upright upon its haunches, 
or, as is commonly said, to beg. Occasionally he glanced his 
eye over his desk, and occasionally shook his finger at his un- 
willing pupil in order to make him retain his position, while on 
the page before him was written that couplet, with the ink of 
the second line still wet, from the description of Italy, — 

' By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, 
The sports of children satisfy the child.' — Prior." 

Dobson says, "Something of consonance between the verses 
and the writer's occupation seems at once to have struck, the 
visitor, and Goldsmith frankly admitted that the one had sug- 
gested the other." 
2a 



354 NOTES [Pages 33-35 

159. Caesars. Cf. Byron's Manfred^ III. iv. : — 

" While Csesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. . . ." 

Again note the budding of the flower of romanticism. 

169. the barren hills. Thomson in his Liberty does not 
ignore the beauty of Alpine scenery. We read of "shaggy 
mountains " that charm, and in Collins's Ode to Liberttj there is 
the couplet : — 

"Ah no ! more pleased thy haunts I seek, 
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak ..." 

and phrases written of Britain's wild grandeur : " cliff sublime 
and hoary," "wolfish mountains," "a wide wild storm," and 
"the shouldering billows." It was on these crude materials 
that Shelley, Byron, and Wordsworth erected their sublime 
nature descriptions. 
173. the mountain's breast. Qi. M.Wton'^ V Allegro : — 

" Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest. ..." 

186. Breasts. It is unnecessary to criticise adversely Mit- 
ford, Masson, and Hales, for substituting " breathes " for 
"breasts" in their texts; the first word is banal, the second 
lends vigor. 

193. Smiles by his cheerful fire. Cf. Burns's To Dr. Black- 
lock : — 

" To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 



Pages 35-39] THE TRAVELLER ' 355 

Note how tlie couplets convey conceptions that are decidedly 
romanti(fin giving us that " one touch of nature" which " makes 
the whole world kin." Cf. 205-206. 

244. With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire. Gold- 
smith did not visit France again until July, 1770. He and 
"the Jessamy Bride" were chaperoned hy Mrs, Horneck. 
The author of The Deserted Village must have had many 
thoughts of " auld lang syne" as he passed from Calais to 
Paris by the way of Lisle. . The unknown tramp-boy, who had 
poorly piped on pastoral reed fifteen years before, had finally 
wandered into the hall of fame in pastoral poetry. His touch 
of the lute was no longer harsh or faltering, and all Europe was 
to praise his " wondrous power." 244-251. Read in The Vicar 
of Wakefield^ Chap. XX., the adventures of George Primrose 
which largely form a part of Goldsmith's autobiography. 

253. gestic. Gesticulatory, used in reference to the manner 
of dancing. 

276. frieze. A shaggy woollen cloth tufted with nap on one 
side. 

286. rampire. A rampart or bulwark. 

299. Industrious habits. In a letter written to his uncle Con- 
tarine from Leyden Goldsmith described Holland as follows : — 

"Nothing can equal its beauty. Wherever I turn my eyes, 
fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottoes, vistas, presented 
themselves, but when you enter their towns you are charmed 
beyond description. No misery is to be seen here ; everyone is 
usefully employed." 

313. Belgic. Goldsmith confuses the Belgians with the 
Dutch. 



I 



356 NOTES [Pages 40-41 

319. Arcadian. Cf. Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn: "the 
dales of Arcady." • 

320. Hydaspes. The river Jelum of Punjaub, India, 
famed by reason of its figuring in the verse of Virgil an(^ 
Horace. 

325. Stern o'er each bosom. 325-334. These lines had the 
honor of being quoted by Johnson, Saturday, October 23, 1773 : 
— "After a good night's rest, we breakfasted at our leisure. 
"We talked of Goldsmith's Traveller^ of which Dr. Johnson spoke 
highly ; and while I was helping him on with his great coat, he 
repeated from it the character of the British nation, which he 
did with such energy, that the tear started into his eye : — 

* Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state 

And learns to venerate himself as man.' " 

— BoswELL, Life of Johnson. 

362. to flatter kings, or court the great. " Having one day 
a call to wait on the late duke, then Earl of Northumberland, 
I found Goldsmith waiting for an audience in an outer room. I 
asked him what had brought him there : he told me an invita- 
tion from his lordship. I made my business as short as I could, 
and, as a reason, mentioned that Dr. Goldsmith was waiting 
without. ... I retired, and staid in the outer room to take 
him home. Upon his coming out I asked him the result of his 
conversation: 'His lordship,' says he, 'told me he had read 
my poem,' meaning The Traveller^ 'and was much delighted 
with it ; that he was going lord lieutenant of Ireland, and that, 
hearing that I was a native of that country, he should be glad 



Page 41] THE TRA VELLER 357 

to do me any kindness. ' And what did you answer, asked I, 
to this gracious offer? ' Why,' said he, ' I could say nothing 
but that I had a brother there, a clergyman, that stood in need 
of help : as for myself, I have no dependence on the promises 
of great men : I look to the booksellers for support, they are 
my best friends, and I am not inclined to forsake them for 
others.'" — Sir John Hawkins. 

Compare with this anecdote Dr. Johnson's letter, written 
February 7, 1755, to Lord Chesterfield : " Seven years, my Lord, 
have now past, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was 
repulsed from your door ; during which time I have been push- 
ing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to 
complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publica- 
tion, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, 
or one smile of favour. ... 

"Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern 
on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has 
reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which 
you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, 
had been kind ; but it has been delayed until I am indifferent 
and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary and cannot impart it ; 
till I am known and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical 
asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been 
received, or to be unwilling that the publick should consider 
me as owing that to a Patron, which Providence has enabled 
me to do for myself. 

" Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation 
to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though 
I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have 



I 



358 NOTES [Pages 41^2 

been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once 
boasted myself with so much exultation, 

"My Lord, 
" Your Lordship's most humble, 

' ' Most obedient servant, 

" Sam. Johnson." 

Note that Goldsmith dedicated Tlie Traveller to his poor 
brother, and The Deserted Village to Reynolds, and She Stoops 
to Conquer to Johnson. 

38 L contending chiefs. "It is not yet decided in politics 
whether the diminution of kingly power in England tends to 
increase the happiness or freedom of the people. For my own 
part, from seeing the bad effects of the tyranny of the great in 
those republican states that pretend to be free, I cannot help 
wishing that our monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the 
power of controlling the encroachments of the great at home." 
— Goldsmith'' s Preface to History of England, 

cited by Mitford. 

Read Goldsmith's Essay IX. National Concord. 

Mitford further cites The Vicar of Wakefield: "It is the 
interest of the great to diminish kingly power as much as pos- 
sible." The Whigs in two factions were trying to win in oppo- 
sition to the Tories, who ardently clung to George III, as a 
king de jure. 

386. Laws grind the poor. Mitford throws light on this line 
from The Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XIX. : — 

' ' What they may then expect, may be seen by turning our 
eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the 



Pages 42-45] THE HERMIT 359 

poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and would 
die for monarchy, sacred monarchy : for if there be anything 
sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed Sovereign of his 
people ; and every diminution of his power, in war or in peace, 
is an infringement upon the real liberties of the subject." 

Thus we see Goldsmith's attitude toward the whole question 
of how far a king should control a nation. 

411. Oswego. Cf. Threnodia Augustalis : — 

" Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
Oswego's dreary shores shall be* my grave. . . ." 

In the whole passage, 401-412, there are felt the tiny particles 
of the great mass of things to come in The Deserted Village. 

420. To stop too fearful. "Johnson wrote line 420 . . . and 
the concluding ten lines, except the last couplet but one." 

MlTFORD. 

436. Luke's iron crown. George and Luke Doza headed a 
desperate rebellion in Hungary in 1514 that proved to be a 
failure, and as a punishment George, not Luke, was hot-potted 
with a molten crown. According to Prior, Goldsmith used the 
name Luke to avoid any allusion to his sovereign, George III. 

436. Damiens' bed of steel. The reference is to Robert 
FranQois Damiens, who tried to assassinate Louis XV. in 1757. 
He was tortured in an iron bed-chair in the Conciergerie, and was 
afterward executed. 

THE HEEMIT 

This ballad was probably written sometime after October 28, 
1762, and was privately printed in 1765 for the Countess of 



360 NOTES [Pages 45-53 

Northumberland. For a little of his material Goldsmith was 
indebted to Percy's The Gentle Herdsman. He loved the ballad 
form of verse exceedingly and in The Bee he has told us that 
" The music of Mattel is dissonance to what I felt when our old 
dairy maid sang me into tears with Johnny Armstrong's La^t 
Good Night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen.-' Sir John Haw- 
kins said of the ballad that it was " one of the finest poems of 
the lyric kind that our language has to boast of," and Goldsmith 
liked it so much that he said, " As to my ' Hermit,' that poem 
cannot be amended." By its contents we feel Goldsmith's sus- 
ceptibility to the romanticism which received such an impetus 
from the publication of Percy's Beliques of Ancient English 
Poetry^ in 1765. In the following year it was inserted in 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 

The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James'' s 
Chronicle., appeared in that paper in June, 1767 : — 

" Sir, — As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper 
controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise 
as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recom- 
mended Blainville'' s Travels because I thought the book was 
a good one ; and I think so still. I said I was told by the book- 
seller that it was then first published : but in that it seems, I 
was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to 
set me right. 

" Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken J 
a ballad I published some time ago from one i by the ingenious ' 

1 "The Friar of Orders Gv2iY-" ~ ReUques of Ancient Poetry, . 
Vol. I., p. 243. 



Pages 53-55] WHEN WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY 361 

Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance be- 
tween the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is 
taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago ; and 
he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told 
me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that 
he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare 
into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I 
may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes 
as these are scarce worth printing : and, were it not for the busy 
disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should 
never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or 
that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communica- 
tions of a much more important nature. 

" I am, sir, yours, &c., 

"Oliver Goldsmith." 



WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY 

"I SAID, 'Do you like Goldsmith's When Lovely Woman 
Stoops to Folly f And he replied, 'I love it.'" 

— LocJcer-Lampson to Tennyson, Memoir 11. , 73. 

Compare in quality the sentiment of that lyric which he so 
often sang to the tune of Tlie Humours of Balamagairy and 
Intended to insert in She Stoops to Conquer : — 

" Ah, me ! when shall I marry me ? 

Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me : 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 
Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 



362 NOTES [Pages 55-57 

" But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 

Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover : 
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Makes but a penitent, loses a lover." 



ELEGY WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A 
MAD DOG 

5. Islington. "... continuing my course to the west, I 
soon arrived at an uriwalled town, called Islington. 

" Islington is a pretty, neat town, mostly built of brick, with 
a church and bells ; it has a small lake, or rather pond, in the 
midst, though at present very much neglected." 

— TJie Citizen of the World, Letter CXXII. 

It was in " this fair and beautiful town " that Goldsmith lived 
from 1762 to 1764, and it was here that the burlesque elegy was 
probably written to be kept for insertion in The Vicar of 
Wakefield. 



AN ELEGY ON THAT GLOEY OF HER 
SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE 

This pleasant bit of nonsense was printed in The Bee, 1759, 
and possesses the same characteristics of style as that of the 
Elegy on the Death of a 3Iad Dog. By some fine critics it is 
regarded as a classic of its kind. Dobson says, "in the ' Elegy 



1 



Pages 57-59] EPITAPH ON DR. PABNELL 363 

on Mrs. Mary Blaize,' borrowing a trick from the old song of 
M. de la Palisse, and an epigrammatic finish from Voltaire, he 
contrives to laugh anew at the many imitators of Gray." 

26. Kent Street. Goldsmith, in 1756, after returning from 
his European wanderings, practised medicine at Bankside, 
Southwark, where, according to Dobson, "he must have made 
the acquaintance of that worshipful Madam Blaize, whom, 
three years later, he celebrated in The Bee. ' Kent street, ' 
he sings — 

' well may say 
That had she lived a twelvemonth more 
She had not died to-day.' 

and Kent Street, then sacred to beggars and broom men, 
traverses Southwark." 



EPITAPH ON DR. PAENELL 

1. Parnell. Dr. Thomas Parnell, 1679-1718, Archdeacon 
of Clogher, a friend of Pope's, an essayist, and a poet of no 
mean ability. "Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid" 
in such fine bits of poetry as Hymn to Contentment., the Night- 
Piece on Death., and The Hermit. His last-named, "sweetly 
moral lay," in heroic couplets, is, as Gfoldsmith said, the best 
known and the one on which " his best reputation is grounded." 
The Night-Piece on Death deserves the high praise given it by 
Goldsmith, who, in his Life of Dr. Parnell., said it " might be 
made to surpass all those night-pieces and churchyard scenes 



364 NOTES [Pages 59-(i0 

that have since appeared." Thus, it is evident, he preferred 
it to Blair's Grave, to Young's Night Thoughts, and even to 
Gray's Elegy. 

This Epitaph was written in 1770 at the time Goldsmith pub-. 
lished his Life of Dr. Parnell. 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC 

This poem was first printed in The Busy Body, 1759. It is 
decidedly original, and therefore is to be set apart from those 
trifles which Goldsmith at this time was striking off from French 
models. One should note that the poem is cast in heroic 
quatrains, in which Gray had written his Elegy. This is sur- 
prising from one who, in 1759, disliked any departure from the 
heroic couplet style of verse. 

5. Wolfe. Goldsmith was always a fervent patriot, being 
ever jealous of England's honor at home and abroad ; and by 
reason of this, and because, as some think, he was a relative of 
Wolfe's, it was very natural for him to write lines commemorat- 
ing the heroic death of the General on the Heights of Abraham. 



SONGS 

The Wretch Condemned with Life to Part and 3femory ! 
Thou Fond Deceiver were published in 1776 ; they are songs 
taken from The Captivity .■ an Oratorio, v/ritten in 1764, but not 
published until 1820. 



Page 61 J SONGS 365 

AJi, Me ! When Shall I Marry Me ? is a song intended to 
have been sung in She Sloops to Conquer, but was omitted 
because tlie lady, Mrs. Bulkley, who took the part of Miss 
Hardcastle, could not sing. 

In June, 1774, Boswell sent the song to the editor of the 
London Magazine with the following note of explanation : — 

" Sir, — I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold- 
smith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps 
have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as 
a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable 
comedy of ' She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as 
Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it 
himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a 
pretty Irish air, called ' The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which 
he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words ; but he 
has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing 
the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me 
them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and 
bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it 
was a last farewell. I preserve this little relick in his own 
handwriting with an affectionate care. 
" I am. Sir, 

" Your humble Servant, 

"James Boswell." 

Note the similar sentiment contained in the exquisite When 
Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly. 



366 NOTES [Pages 62-C3 

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 

This tripping trifle in thought and metre was written in the 
spring of 1771 and was published in 1776. Croker says, "The 
leading idea of ' Haunch of Venison ' is taken from Boileau's 
third satire (which itself was no doubt suggested by Horace's 
raillery of the banquet of Nasidienus), and two or three pas- 
sages which one would a priori have pronounced the most orig- 
inal and natural, are clearly copied from, the French poet." In 
March, 1771, Goldsmith had gone down from London to Gos- 
field, Essex, or to Bath, with Lord Clare, afterward Earl 
Nugent, a jovial countryman of his who dabbled in poetry, and 
on returning to town addressed 'to him this piece which by its 
metre must have nearly crazed old Johnson, who no doubt 
thought heroic couplets had been stressed into anapestic tetram- 
eters so as to correspond with the dancing steps of an idiot, 
— "the inspired idiot" of Walpole's. 

14, bounce. A lie. 

18. Byrne. A nephew of Lord Clare's. 

21. Reynolds. Sir Joshua, the artist who was a member of 
the Literary Club. 

24. Monroe. Miss Dorothy Monroe. 

27. H — rth, and Hiff. William Hogarth, the famous painter 
and engraver, and Dr. Paul Hiffernan, an Irishman who fre- 
quently dipped into Goldsmith's purse. Coley is Colman, the- 
elder. 

29. Higgins. Captain Higgins, a friend of Goldsmith's who 
aided him in getting even with his literary enemy, Kenrick, 

34. rufQes, when wanting a shirt. In a letter written January, 



Pages 63-67] THE HAUJ^CH OF VENISON 367 

1770, to his brother Maurice, Goldsmith says, " Honours to one in 
my situation are something like ruffles to one that wants a shirt. " 

37. under-bred, fine spoken fellow. Possibly this is a refer- 
ence to Goldsmith's great prose character, Beau Tibbs, — the 
second-rate beau, who, like a chameleon, lived on air, and yet 
was ever hungry for turbot, or ortolan, and ox-cheek. 

55. this venison. " We need not follow the vanished veni- 
son — which did not make its appearance at the banquet any more 
than did Johnson or Burke — farther than to say that if Lord 
Clare did not make it good to the poet he did not deserve to 
have his name associated with such a clever and careless jen 
d'' esprit,'''' — Black, E. M. L. 

60. " nobody with me at sea but myself. ' ' According to Dob- 
son, it is a bit of quotation from one of the love letters of Henry 
Frederick, Duke of Cumberland, to the Countess Grosvenor. 

72. Thrale. On September 7, 1771, Goldsmith writes to 
Langton : " Johnson has been down upon a visit to a country 
parson. Dr. Taylor, and is returned to his old haunts at Mrs. 
Thrale's." Johnson was fond of visiting the Thrales at their 
fine country place at Streatham. 

78. Panurge. The arrant rogue in Rabelais's Pantagruel. 
"... the side strokes (perfectly perceptible to Lord Clare) at 
Parson Scott in ' Cinna' and 'Panurge,' the vulgar effusiveness 
of the hungry North Briton and the neat fidelity of the Jew's 
' 1 like these here dinners so pretty and small ' are all perfect 
in their way. Nor should the skill with which Goldsmith man- 
ages to suggest that he is ' among ' but not ' of ' the company, 
be overlooked." — Dobson. 

115. Sad Philomel. Cf. Milton's II Penseroso. 56-57. 



368 NOTES [Page 68 



RETALIATION 

This poem was published April 19, two weeks after the death 
of Goldsmith, and was occasioned, according to Mitford, by the 
following occurrences: "Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends 
occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it 
was proposed to write epitaphs on him. . . . Garrick wrote, 
offhand, with a good deal of humour, an epitaph on Goldsmith. 
Dr. Bernard also gave him an epitaph. Sir Joshua sketched 
his bust in pen and ink." Garrick's epitaph was : — 

"Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 
Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." 

Johnson and Burke did not write epitaphs. 

Cumberland in his Memoirs gives an interesting account of 
the meeting and of how Goldsmith retaliated at the next meet- 
ing, at which for the last time he enjoyed the company of his 
friends. 

Davies in his Life of Garrick says : " In no part of his works 
has this author discovered a more nice and critical discernment, 
or a more perfect knowledge of human nature, than in this 
poem ; with wonderful art he has traced all the leading features 
of his several portraits, and given with truth the ch'aracteristical 
peculiarities of each : no man is lampooned, and no man is 
flattered." 

1. Scarron. According to Dobson, Goldsmith had just been 
translating Scarron's Boman Comique, and, thinking of the 
famous picnic dinners, compares his friends to dishes. 



Pages 68-70] ' RETALIATION 369 

3. landlord. The host of St. James's coffee-house. 

5. Dean. Dean of Deny, Dr. Barnard. 

6. Burke. Edmund Burke. 

7. Will. William Burke, a relation of Edmund Burke's and 
late secretary to General Conway. 

8. Dick. Richard Burke, a lawyer and younger brother of 
Edmund's. 

9. Cumberland. Richard Cumberland, the chief dramatist of 
the sentimental school. His finest play is West Indian, 1771. 

10. Douglas. The Canon of Windsor, a Scotchman. 

11. Garrick. The famous actor, David Garrick. 

14. Ridge. John Ridge, an Irish lawyer. Reynolds, Sir 
Joshua. 

15. Hickey. A bustling Irish lawyer, who had been espe- 
cially a bore to Goldsmith on his second visit to France in 
1770. 

29. Edmund. Northcote says : " We then spoke of ' Retalia- 
tion,' and praised the character of Burke in particular as a 
masterpiece. Nothing that he had ever said or done but what 
was foretold in it : nor was he painted as the principal figure in 
the foreground with the partiality of a friend, or as the great 
man of the day, but with a background of history, showing 
both what he was and what he might have been." 

34. Townshend. T. Townshend, M. P., who afterward be- 
came Lord Sydney. 

43. William. See note on 7. 

51. Richard. See note on 8. 

54. breaking a limb. He was unfortunate on separate occa- 
sions to break an arm and a leg. 
2b 



370 flHH|H NOTES [Pages 70-73 

62. Terence. Publius Terentius Afer, a celebrated Roman 
comic poet. He was born at Carthage about 195 b.c, and 
died in 159 or 158 b.c. George Colman made an excellent 
translation of Terence into English verse in 1764. 

86. Dodds. Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was hanged for forgery in 
1777. Dr. Johnson tried his best to save him. 

86. Kenrick. Dr. Kenrick, who prompted the scurrilous 
Tom Tickle letter, which hinted at Goldsmith's being enamored 
of "the Jessamy Bride," and which caused Goldsmith to use 
personal violence on Evans. 

87. Macpherson. James Macpherson, the author of Ossian. 
The allusion is to his translation of Homer. 

89. Lauders and Bowers. William Lauder and Archibald 
Bower, who were Scotch authors. 

95. actor. Tom Davies, the veteran actor, says : "the sum 
of all that can be said for and against Mr. Garrick, some 
people think, may be found in these lines of Goldsmith [93- 
124] . . . Garrick's features in the Retaliation are somewhat 
exaggerated." 

115. Kelly. Hugh Kelly, the dramatist, whose sentimental 
comedy, False Delicacy, in Garrick's hands took away the 
laurels from Goldsmith's The Good-Natured 3Ian in 1768. He 
also wrote an inferior drama, A Wo7rl to the Wise, 1770. 

115. Woodfall. William Woodfall, printer of The 3Iorning 
Chronicle. 

118. be-Roscius'd. Garrick was styled "the British 
Roscius." Quintus Roscius (d. 60 b.c.) was a famous Roman 
actor. 

124. Beaumonts and Bens. Francis Beaumont, 1586-1616, 



Pages 73-74] RETALIATION 371 

was an Elizabethan dramatist who collaborated with John 
Eletcher in producing about fifty plays, of which Philaster and 
Tlie 3IakVs Tr^agedy are the best. Ben Jonson, 1573? -1637, 
was the greatest Elizabethan dramatist continuing after Shak- 
spere's death. His finest play is The Alchemist. 

145. Raphaels, Correggios. Sanzio Raffaelle (Raphael), 1483- 
1520, was an Italian painter whose renowned works are the 
" Sistine Madonna" in Dresden, "La Belle Jardiniere," "St. 
George and the Dragon," "St. Michael" in the Louvre, the 
"Vision of Ezekiel " in Florence, the "Transfiguration" in 
the Vatican at Rome, and the "Marriage of the Virgin" in 
Milan. Antonio Allegri da Correggio, 1494-1534, was also a 
great Italian painter. Among his masterpieces are "The 
Reading Magdalen" and "Night" in Dresden, "The Ascen- 
sion" in Parma, and the " Ecce Homo" in London. 

146. Prior is responsible for supplying "By flattery un- 
spoiled" as a beginning for line 147. If we can believe him, 
then these words were tagged on to Betaliation, being the last 
ever penned by poor Goldy. 

Goldsmith had drawn Burke and Garrick with Chaucerian 
humor of satire, and his portrait of Reynolds, though unfin- 
ished, by the genial good will and delicacy of expression, shows 
that when Johnson's turn would have come there would have 
been nothing portrayed of the bear but his skin. 

Garrick, who had ever been a facile friend or time server 
["He cast off his friends ... he could whistle them back."] 
to Goldsmith, was so stirred up by the poignancy of bitter truth 
that he composed the following squib of invective as a reply to 
Betaliation : — 



372 NOTES [Page 74 



Jupiter and Ifercury: a Fable 

" Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, 
Go fetch me some clay — I will make an oddfelloiv : 
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross, • 
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross; 
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions, 
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions; 
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, 
Turu'd to learning and gaming, religion, and raking. 
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste ; 
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his lips with fine taste : 
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail. 
Set fire to his head, and set fire to the tail ; 
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it, 
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, 
And among brother mortals — be Goldsmith his name; 
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, 
You, Hermes, shall fetch him — to make us sport here." 

Carefully note that the last three important poems of Gold- 
smith were written in ambling anapests. Why did he not write 
The Haunch of Venison^ the verse in the letter to Mrs. Bun- 
bury, and Betaliatio7i, in iambic pentameter ? 



Page 75] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 373 

DRAMAS 

THE GOOD-NATUEED MAN 

Goldsmith began this comedy in 1766. He was disgusted 
with the comedies which contained neither wit nor gayety of 
parts, nor nature, nor true humor, in conception of plot or 
character-portrayal. In The Present State of Polite Learning 
he had lashed the dramatic requirement of excellence that had 
been set by Garrick, and had continued his disapproval of the 
condition of the English stage in The Bee, The Citizen of the 
World, and his Essays. 

The comedy of tears or of forced sentiment had arisen from 
a desire on the part of purists to remove the plague legacy of 
immorality which had been left by the dramatists of the Restor- 
ation Period. Steele's attempt in The Conscious Lovers of 
1722 made possible the ephemeral existence of a mosquito 
cloud of dramatists such as Kelly, Foote, Cumberland, Colman 
the elder, and Macklin. 

Goldsmith had little patience with such a play as Charles 
Macklin's Love a-la-Mode of 1759, or for such a piece as George 
Colman's The Jealous Wife of 1761; but he was very much 
impressed by Colman and Garrick's The Clandestine Marriage, 
1766, since he detected in it signs of hostility toward serio- 
sentiment. Therefore, he thought he would contribute to the 
cause of reformation The Good-Natured Man, which he had 
finished early in 1767. He desired to submit the play to Gar- 



374 NOTES [Pages 75-79 

rick, but was conscious of the criticisms that had been written 
in his prose writings on the condition of the English drama, 
and of the fact that the great actor had refused to vote for him 
as Secretary of the Royal Academy. Perhaps Garrick did read 
his manuscript, and gave a gentle hint to Johnson that Drury 
Lane could not accept such a play. So, in any case, we can 
understand why Covent Garden obtained the privilege of put- 
ting it on. Goldsmith would not toady, would not flatter an 
actor and please an audience. When Colman the elder, man- 
ager of Covent Garden, the formidable rival of Garrick, was 
asked to stage the comedy, the "avaricious " manager of Drury 
Lane at once rushed Kelly's new sentimental play, False Deli- 
cacy, which for eight nights, from January 23, 1768, on, had a 
phenomenal run, taking the town by storm. By the success of 
False Delicacy it is easy to comprehend the reluctance with 
which Colman set in a motion a doubtful comedy. However, 
to please Johnson, Burke, and the poet dressed in Tyrian bloom 
and satin grain and blue silk breeches, he ran it for nine nights ; 
removing in its course the bailiff scene. Though it brought 
£400 to the disconsolate author, yet it was largely a failure, by 
reason of the "finessing and trick" of Johnson's erstwhile 
pupil, — David Garrick. 

Davies, a very finely trained actor, in his Life of Garrick^ 
says: "Two characters in this comedy were absolutely un- 
known before to the English stage ; a man who boasts an 
intimacy with persons of high rank whom he never saw, and . 
another who is almost always lamenting misfortunes he never 
knew. Croaker is highly designed, and as strongly finished 
a portrait of a discontented man, of one who disturbs every 



Pages 79-131] THE GOOD-NATURED MAN 375 

happiness he possesses, from apprehension of distant evil, as 
any character of Congreve, or any other of our English drama- 
tists. Shuter acted Croaker with that warm glee of fancy, and 
genuine flow of humour, that always accompanied his best and 
most animated performance." 

Prologue 

Bensley. Robert Bensley, 1738-1817. He was a great actor, 
especially an excellent lago. He retired from the stage in 
1796. See Dramatis Fersonoe. 

22. Crispin. St. Crispin was the patron saint of shoe- 
makers. 

Act the First 

398. Almack's. Goldsmith is referring to the assembly 
rooms in King Street, St. James. 

400. painted ruins. These were situated at the ends of the 
prominent walks in Old Vauxhall Gardens. 

500. trip to Scotland. Read Goldsmith's Essay XXIII.., 
Scottish Marriages. 

Act the Second 

292. land-carriage fishery. In 1761 machines for carrying 
fish by land were established. 

292. jag-hire. In India, the assigning of a piece of land to 
a person for life. 

Act the Tliird 

81. Smoke. Take notice of. Cf. Swift's Journal to Stella.) 
Letter VI. : "I fancy you will smoke me in the Tatler I am 
going to write; for I believe I have told you the hint." 



376 NOTES [Pages 132-198 

105. Morocco. Mr. Flanigan had been Merry Andrew to a 
puppet-show. 

150. Hawke or Amherst. In 1759, Admiral Hawke had de- 
feated the French in Quiberon Bay. General Amherst ought 
to interest American students, since he captured Ticonderoga. 

Act the Fourth 

270. incendiary letter. "Goldsmith owned that he was in- 
debted for his first conception of the character of Croaker to 
Johnson's Suspirius in the Bamhler. Croaker's reading the 
incendiary letter in the fourth act was received with a roar of 
approbation. " — Mitford. 

454. Loretto. The house at Loretto in Italy. Tradition 
says that while at Nazareth, the Virgin Mary lived in this 
house, which before 1291 had had many changes of location. 

Act the Fifth 

398. Paoli ; Squilachi. Pascal Paoli, the patriot of Corsica, at 
that time in London ; Squillaci was the Spanish Prime Minister. 

400. Count Poniatowski. Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski, 
who was Poland's last king. 

449. the Gazetteer. A daily paper noted for its satirical 
articles. Samuel Richardson for a time supervised its sheets. 

449. St. James's. The St. James''s Chronicle. 

460. Wildman's. A London coffee-house frequented by 

politicians. 

Epilogue 

Mrs. Bulkley. This actress afterward took the part of Miss 
Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer. 



Pages 199-203] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ^11 

18. Warwick-Lane. According to Dobson, Wren's old 
College of Physicians, situated in Warwick Lane, at that time 
was in warm quarrel about the exclusion of certain Licentiates 
from Fellowships. 

19. manager. George Colman, the manager of Covent Gar- 
den Theatre. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 

This comic masterpiece, which still successfully holds the 
stage, was in manuscript form by the beginning of 1772. Gold- 
smith, in a letter to Langton, September 7, 1771, intimates 
that for three months at Edgeware he had been trying to make 
people laugh. " There have I been strolling about the hedges, 
studying jests, with a most tragical countenance." He was try- 
ing to -redeem the failure of The Good-Natured Man by pro- 
ducing a play which would effect a complete reaction against 
make-believe comedies such as Foote's The Lame Lover, 1770, 
Kelly's A Word to the Wise, 1770, and Cumberland's The West 
Lidian, 1771. For a long time, a year, the manuscript re- 
mained in the hands of Colman, who seems to have presaged for 
it utmost failure, being even less favorably impressed with it 
than he had been with The Good-Natured Man. Hot-headed 
Goldy finally secured its return from Colman and, enraged at 
the emendations found therein, sent it on to Garrick for accept- 
ance. Johnson did not acquiesce in this plan, thinking that 
injustice had been done Colman and advised Goldsmith to ask 
Garrick for the return of the manuscript. So, on February 6, 



378 NOTES [Page 203 

1773, Goldsmith wrote to Garrick who diplomatically returned 
the play. 

Johnson was sure of the success of the comedy, expressing 
himself on February 24, in strong language, " The dialogue is 
quick and gay, and the incidents are so prepared as not to seem 
improbable." 

When Garrick, listing to the wind that was blowing against 
sentimental comedy, wrote for the play a prologue which indi- 
cated that he had departed from his Kelly of 1768 and all senti- 
mental, moral preaching, and since Foote had just burlesqued 
current lowness of dramatic humor in his The Handsome 
Housemaid; or, Piety in Pattens, Colman decided to give it a 
chance. 

However, up to the last moment, it seemed that English com- 
edy would go on weeping and tragedy laughing, and sentimental 
mulish sterility would keep this delightful play from passing from 
rehearsal to the boards proper, for the child had not been named. 
From Northcote we know that Reynolds suggested, " You ought 
to call it The Belle's Stratagem, and if you do not I will damn 
it." But Goldsmith remembering his Dryden insisted on giving 
it the major and the sub-title which it now possesses. 

At last, on March 15, 1773, She *S'tooj)s to Conquer was acted 
at Covent Garden, and as to how London received the new play 
on its first night we must turn to Cumberland who, in his 
Memoirs, has a delightful story of how Goldy '^s friends went from 
Shakespeare Tavern to help out the play. He says, "All eyes 
were upon Johnson, who sat in the front row of a side box, 
and when he laughed everybody thought themselves warranted 
to roar." Johnson acted so outrageously tliat everybody in the 



Page 203] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 379 

theatre paid more attention to him than to the play, and Cum- 
berland says he had to cease his signals for causing laughter. 

The comedy would have succeeded in spite of this pre-arranged 
flapping. Johnson's ill-timed guffaws and Colman's surly re- 
marks in the wings could not damage the mirror which had 
been set up to nature. Everywhere in the liouse was genuine 
laughter. Northcote was once asked by Goldsmith, "Did it 
make you laugh ? " "Exceedingly," he replied. "Then," said 
the Doctor, "that is all I require." 

And where was Goldsmith on this fateful night, was he cos- 
tumed as he had been for The Oood-Natured Man 9 No ; he 
was walking the Mall in despair lest 1768 should overtake 1773. 
Some one found him there and suggested that they might cut 
his piece as they had done in 1768. So he hurried to the 
theatre and entered just as Act V. 2 was on, where Mrs. Hard- 
castle is forty miles from home. The audience was hissing this 
as an improbability. In an agony of apprehension he ran up 
to the manager exclaiming, "What's that! What's that!" 
" Pshaw ! Doctor," replied Colman, in a sarcastic tone, " don't 
be terrified at squibs when we have been sitting these two hours 
upon a barrel of gunpowder." It is said Goldy never quite for- 
gave Colman for spoiling the evening. However, he did not 
weep as on the first night of The Good-Natured Man, for he 
must have been told of his great success, which was to make his 
comedy run for twelve nights and win the approbation of royalty. 

Davies says, " genius presides over every scene in this play," 
and, after likening Marlow to Lord Hardy in Steele's Funeral, 
he goes on to say, "Tony Lumpkin is ... a most diverting 
portrait of ignorance, rusticity, low cunning, and obstinacy.". 



380 NOTES [Pages 203-216 

" Hardcastle, his wife and daughter, I think, are absolutely 
new ; the language is easy and characteristical ; the manners 
of the times are slightly, but faithfully, represented ; the satire 
is not ostentatiously displayed, but incidentally involved in the 
business of the play, and the suspense of the audience is artfully 
kept up to the last. This comedy was very well acted. Hard- 
castle and Tony Lumpkin were supported in a masterly style 
by Shuter and Quick ; so was Miss Hardcastle by Mrs. Bulkley. 
Mrs. Green in Mrs. Hardcastle maintained her just title to one 
of the best comic actresses of the age." 

Goldsmith got his "three tolerable benefits" of between 
£400 and £500, besides what afterward came from Newbery 
who published the play in cheap book form. 

Prologue 

12. Shuter. See Dramatis Personce. 
15. Ned. Edward Shuter, the actor. 

Act L — 1 

21. Prince Eugene. Eugene of Savoy was the Duke of 
Marlborough's ally at Blenheim in 1704. 

30. Joan. Darby and Joan represent a contented, rustic 
couple. 

Act L — 2 

7. song. " We drank tea with the ladies, and Goldsmith 
sung Tony Lumpkin's song in his comedy," writes Boswell in 
his Life of Johnson. If Tony is an illiterate rascal, how can he 
be the author of such a fine lyric ? 



Pages 218-252] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 381 

49. "Water Parted." These words are in a song contained 
in Artaxerxes, an opera of Arne's. 

50. Ariadne. The opera Ariadne of Handel's which con- 
tained a fine minuet. 

125. trapesing. This word and " trolloping," in reference to 
women, are used to suggest lack of manners and carelessness in 
dress. 

185. inn. Goldsmith, when a boy, going to school at Edge- 
worthstown, once made the mistake of taking a gentleman's 
house for an inn. See Dobson's Oliver Goldsmith, p. 10. 

Act II.— 1 

9. warren. A piece of ground for breeding and keeping rabbits, 
174. duchesses. Common wenches or women, who at 

theatres palmed themselves off as belonging to the nobility. 
204. Denain. In 1712, this French town was the scene of 

the victory of Villars over Eugene's forces. 

263. Hyder Ally. The then reigning Sultan of Mysore. 
Ally Cawn, Subah of Bengal. 

264. Ally Croaker. An Irish song popular at that time. 
289. Belgrade. Probably Goldsmith, at one of General 

Oglethorpe's dinners, had heard all the details of this battle. 

359. a Florentine. An indefinite kind of pudding, possibly 
a meat pie. 

638. Ranelagh, St. James's or Tower Wharf. At Chelsea 
were the Ranelagh Gardens. The aristocrats frequented St. 
James's, and the lower classes, the rabble, could be found near 
the Tower. 

644. Pantheon. The Oxford Street concert room. 



382 NOTES [Pages 252-273 

644. Grotto Gardens, the Borough. The first was in Clerk- 
enwell ; the second in Southwark. 

648. Scandalous Magazine. Charles Lamb, in his Thoughts 
on Books and Beading, delightfully clarifies the allusion : 
" Coming in to an inn at night, — having ordered your supper* 
— what can be more delightful than to find lying in the window- 
seat, left there time out of mind by the carelessness of some 
former guest, two or three numbers of the old Toion and Coun- 
try Magazine, with its amusing tete-a-tete pictures — ' The 
Royal Lover and Lady G — ,'' The Melting Platonic and the Old 
Beau,' — and such-like antiquated scandal ? " 

Lamb mentions the two pictures which refer to the pranks 
of the Prince Regent, who was afterward George IV. 

656. Ladies' Memorandum-book. A pocket-book and diary 
published every year. 

740. Quincy. The Complete English Dispensatory, by John 
Quincey. 

Act III. — 1 

138. Morrice. Dance away, be off. 

152. marcasites. A mineral which, by its appearance, might 
be thought to contain gold or silver. See Dictionary. 

167. King Solomon. Cf. Goldsmith's Essay VL, Adventures 
of a Strolling Player : "Thus the whole employment of my 
younger years was that of interpreter to Punch and King 
Solomon in all his glory." 

292. Cherry. This is the name of the innkeeper's daughter 
in Farquhar's comedy, The Beaux' Stratagem, 1707. 

323. The Lamb. Rooms were named, not numbered, in 
those days. 



Pages 278-330] SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER 383 

442. ames-ace. In dice the lowest throw of two aces. The 
player's object was to throw seven, so if he threw aces three 
times running he was indeed hazarding his money on the throw 
of seven. He would not likely nick it or throw seven again. 

Act IV.— 1 

194. Rake's Progress. The engravings of William Hogarth. 
Read the beginning of Charles Lamb's essay on The Genius and 
Character of Hogarth. 

242. Dullissimo Maccaroni. The prigs, or dandies, of the 
period were called "Macaroni." 

312. Whistle-jacket. A famous race horse. 

407. Shake-bag. Dobson quotes Halliwell, who says it is a 
large game-cock. 

Act v.— 2 

18. rabbet. The word is derived from the Fr. rebattre, to 
humble. 

Epilogue 

26. Nancy Dawson. The name of a song. Nancy was a 
famous dancer of that period. 

26. Che Faro. In Gllick's opera, Orfeo, 1764, is " Che faro 
senza Euridice," a favorite aria. 

28. Heinel. In 1773 everybody in London was running to 
see this famous Prussian danseuse. 

31. spadille. The ace of spades, chief trump in ombre, the 
popular card game of the Queen Anne period. 

35. Bayes. A character in Buckingham's Behearsal, 1672. 
Here the meaning is poetic, or histrionic, laurels. 



CHEONOLOGICAL LIST OF GOLDSMITH'S 
CHIEF WORKS 



Memoirs of a Protestant (Trans.) . 

Present State of Polite Learning in Europe 

The Bee .... 

The Citizen of the World 

Life of Richard Nash 

The Traveller . 

Essays .... 

The Vicar of Wakefield . 

Beauties of English Poesy 

The Good-Natured Man . 

Roman History 

The Deserted Village 

Life of Thomas Parnell . 

History of England . 

Threnodia Augustalis 

She Stoops to Conquer 

Retaliation 

Grecian History 

History of the Earth and Animated Nature 

The Haunch of Venison . 

The Captivity : An Oratorio 

Letter to Mrs. Bunbury . 

2 c 385 



1758 
1759 
1759 
1762 
1762 
1764 
1765 
1766 
1767 
1768 
1769 
1770 
1770 
1771 
1772 
1773 
1774 
1774 
1774 
1776 
1820 
1837 



386 REFERENCES 



Eeferences 

Prior's Life of Oliver Goldsmith 1837 

Forster's Life and Adventures of Oliver Goldsmith . . 1848 
Lord Lytton's article on Forster's Life in Edinburgh 

Bevie'w, LXXXVIIL, pp. 193-225 .... 1848 
Irving's Life of Oliver Goldsmith . . . . . 1849 

Tliackeray's English Humorists 1853 

De Quincey's Oliver Goldsmith, VI., pp. 194-233 . 1853-1860 
Macaulay's article in Encyclopcedia Britannica, Eighth 

Edition, IX. 1856 

Black's Life of Goldsmith, English Men of Letters Series 1878 
Dobson's Life of Goldsmith, Great Writers Series . . 1888 

(See Revised Edition, 1899, Dodd, Mead & Co., New York.) 
Stephen's article in Dictionary of National Biography, 

XXIL, pp. 86-95 1890 

Hill's Boswell's Life of Johnson, Harper & Brothers, 

New York 1891 

Dobson's article in Chambers'' Cyclopcedia of English 

Literature, II., pp. 478-494 1902 

Garnett and Gosse's account of Goldsmith in An Illus- 
trated History of English Literature, III., pp. 342-346 1903 
Dobson's Goldsmith'' s Good-]Sfatur\l 3Ian and She Stoops 
to Conquer, in Belles-Lettres Series. D. C. Heath & 
Co., Boston . . . . . . . . 1903 



INDEX 



actor, 370. 
Ally Cawn, 381. 
Ally Croaker, 381. 
Almack's, 375. 
Altama, 343. 
ames-ace, 383. 
Amherst, General, 376. 
Apennine, 351. 
Arcadian, 356. 
Ariadne, 381. 
Arno, 351. 
art, 351. 
Auburn, 332. 

Barnard, Dr., 369. 
barren hills, 354. 
bashful stranger, 349. 
Bayes, 383. 

Beaumont, Francis, 370. 
Belgic, 355. 
Belgrade, 381. 
Bensley, Robert, 375. 
be-Roscius'd, 370. 
bold peasantry, 334. 
Borough, the, 382. 
bounce, 366. 
Bower, Archibald, 370. 
bread, 343. 
breaking a limb, 369. 



Breasts, 354. 
broken soldier, 337. 
Bulkley, Mrs., 376. 
Burke, Edmund, 369. 
Burke, Richard, 369. 
Burke, William, 369. 
"By flattery unspoiled," 371. 
Byrne, Mr., 366. 

Caesars, 354. 
Campania's plain, 348. 
Carinthian, 348. 
catch the heart, 345. 
cheerful fire, 354. 
Che Faro, 383. 
Cherry, 382. 
Colman, George, 366. 
common's fenceless limits, 341. 
contending chiefs, 358. 
Correggio, Antonio da, 371. 
court the great, 356. 
Crispin, St., 375. 
crouching tigers, 344. 
Cumberland, Richard, 369. 

Damiens' bed of steel, 359. 
dancing pair, 333. 
decent church, 332. 
I degenerate times, 345, 

387 



388 



INDEX 



Denain, 381. 
destruction done, 344. 
die at home, 335. 
distant climes, 343. 
Dodd, Kev. Dr., 370. 
Douglas, Canon, 3G9. 
duchesses, 381. 
Dullissimo Maccaroni, 383. 

England's griefs, 334. 

Far different there, 343. 
fine-spoken fellow, 367. 
fleeting good, 349. 
Florentine, 381. 
fluctuate, 337. 
folly pays to pride, 334, 
forty pounds a year, 337. 
frieze, 355. 

game of goose, 340. 
Garrick, David, 309. 
Gazetteer, 376. 
gestic, 355. 
Grotto Gardens, 382. 

Hawke, Admiral, 376. 
hawthorn bush, 332. 
Heinel, 383. 
Hickey, Mr., 369. 
Hiffernan, Dr. Paul, 366. 
Higgins, Captain, 366. 
His pity gave, 337. 
Hogarth, William, 366. 
hopes, 335. 



Hydaspes, 356. 
Hyder Ally, 381. 

Idra, 351. 

Ill fares the land, 333. 

impotence of dress, 341. 

incendiary letter, 376. 

Industrious habits, 355. 

inn, 381. 

Islington, 362. 

jag-hire, 375. 

Joan, 380. 

Jon son, Ben, 371. 

Kelley, Hugh, 370. 
Kenrick, Dr., 370. 
Kent Street, 363. 
King Solomon, 382. 

Ladies^ Memorandum-ltook, 382. 
Lamb, The, 382. 
land-carriage fishery, 375. 
landlord, 369. 
Lauder, William, 370. 
Laws grind the poor, 358. 
learns to fly, 336. 
led the way, 338. ' 
lengthening chain, 349. 
Loire, 355. 
Loretto, 376. 
Luke's iron crown, 359. 

Macpherson, James, 370. 
manager, 377. 
marcasites, 382. 



INDEX 



389 



mirth and manners, 334. 
Monroe, Miss Dorothy, 366. 
Morocco, 376. 
Morrice, 382. 
mountain's breast, 354. 
my griefs, 335. 
My shame in crowds, 345. 
my wanderings, 334. 

Nancy Daioson, 383. 
Nature, a mother, 351. 
neglected shrub, 351. 
niglitingale, 336. 
" nobody with me at sea," 367. 

oft a sigli prevails, 350. 
Oswego, 359. 

painted ruins, 375. 
Pambamarca, 346. 
Pantheon, 381. 
Pants to the place, 335. 
Pan urge, 367. 
Paoli, Pascal, 376. 
Parnell, Dr. Thomas, 363. 
pasteboard triumph, 353. 
Philomel, 367. 
plethoric, 352. 
Poniatowski, Count, 376. 
poor at first, 346. 
primrose, 342. 
Prince Eugene, 380. 
Princes and lords, 333. 
Proud swells the tide, 340. 

Quincey, John, 382. 



rabbet, 383. 

Raffaelle (Raphael), Sanzio, 371. 

Rake's Progress, 383. 

rampire, 355. 

Ranelagh, 381. 

resignation, 336. 

return to view, 334. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 366, 369. 

Ridge, John, 369. 

sad historian, 337. 

St. James's, 381. 

St. James's Chronicle, 376. 

Scandalous Magazine, 382. 

Scarron, 368. 

Scheldt, 348. 

school-taught, 350. 

Shake-bag, 383. 

shivering female, 342. 

Shuter, Edward, 380. 

sickly greatness, 344. 

slow, 347. 

Smoke, 375. 

song, 380. 

spadille, 383. 

sports of children, 353. 

Squillaci, Prime Minister, 376. 

Stern o'er each bosom, 356. 

surly porter, 336. 

sweet poetry, 344. 

tall cliff, 338. 
Teach, 346. 
Terence, 370. 
thanks his gods, 351. 



390 



INDEX 



Thrale, Mrs., 367. 

to my brother turns, 348. 

Torno, 346. 

To stop too fearful, 359. 

Tower Wharf, 381. 

Towusheud, T., 369. 

trapesing, 381. 

traverse realms alone, 350. 

trip to Scotland, 375. 

Tumultuous grandeur, 342. 

tuneless pipe, 355. 

twelve good rules, 340. 

Unpractis'd he to fawn, 337. 



venison, 367. 
village master, 339. 
village preacher, 337. 
village train, 333. 

wandering, 349. 
warren, 381. 
Warwick-Lane, 377. 
"TFa^er Parked," 381. 
Whistle-jacket, 383. 
white-wash 'd wall, 339. 
Wildman's, 376. 
Wolfe, General, 364. 
Woodfall, William, 370. 



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